


A Song of Fire and Retribution

by Lucius_Octivus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Incest, Invasion, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 45
Words: 235,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucius_Octivus/pseuds/Lucius_Octivus
Summary: Dynasties rise, dynasties fall, and some are left in ashes.Since they were young, the exiled members of House Targaryen have been hidden away in Essos since Robert's Rebellion. They're the blood of the dragon and to regain the throne they see as theirs, they will need the support of the merchants princes and sellswords of Essos whose greedy eyes look to the war-torn land as an opportunity to be exploited.While to the north is a danger which threatens to engulf the warring realm, where laughter and songs will cease, leaving only the howl of the cold winds.But will the south be prepared for the coming winter?





	1. Jon Connington

 

The leaves rustled in the gentle breeze which were fragrant with the exotic scents of Essos. Fruit, rich smelling flowers, with only the mild scent of the sea. With the sound of heavy footsteps, the exiled lord walked through the cheesemongers estate.

The sun hung above him in the clear blue sky. The weather in Essos was usually sunny, he found. Not the near constant rain and winds of the Stormlands, his home. The home he missed, even for its faults. Not that he wanted to go back there now, with the usurpers claws tightly wrapped around Westeros as he sat the Iron Throne. _My princes’ rightful throne_.

After being exiled after the Battle of the Bells, the former lord of Griffins Roast had been exiled. The defeat still tasted bitter on his tongue. _A stain which caused the defeat of an entire house. I should have burnt the entire town to the ground. My prince would still be alive._ After hearing of the disastrous battle of the Trident, the lord saw little point and decided to sell his services to the Golden Company, after eating away the few coins he managed to bring with him. Four years ago, he had landed in Essos and he could still remember the events clearly.

With cautious glances, Connington examined the portly eunuchs on guard around the grounds. Like statues they stood with their spiked helms. He didn’t trust eunuchs, not since Varys – the king’s spymaster who swiftly turned his services to the usurper after whispering poison in the mad king’s ear. The spymaster wasn’t an easy many to forget in his bright lavender robes and with a scent of sickly sweet flowers clinging to him like the ones which were used to cover a corpse. The Master of Whispers was always quick to point out anything which could pose a possible threat to the king, only serving to increase Aerys’ paranoia.

With a horrid groaning sound, the grand doors opened for him and a slave hurried through the marble corridors. The manse was much nicer looking then the castles of Westeros, even more beautiful than ones like Highgarden or the Eyrie. _But castles are fortresses first of all. To be defendable against all threats, a palace isn’t_. Though the high and spiked walls around the manse painted another picture.

The Lyseni slave bowed her head before leading him in to a small and highly furnished room. “This one requests that you wait, milord. Magister Illyrio needs to be properly informed of your arrival.” Connington nodded and the girl rushed off, almost running by how quickly she moved. Even though slavery was illegal in Pentos, these servants were slaves in all but name.

Thankfully he didn’t have to wait long before the doors swung open and the most obese man he’s ever seen walked in. _So this is Magister Illyrio_. The merchant prince was grotesque, with a yellow fork beard which shun like gold. His bright red and yellow robes could be the size of a tent, yet they did little to wrap around his fat belly, which almost had his hairy breasts hanging out. _How he’s not eaten all his gold, I don’t know._

“Hello my friend,” the Pentoshi magister said with a laugh, his entire belly bouncing vigorously. “May I welcome you to the fair city of Pentos. Wine, food? It has sure to have been a long ride from the Disputed Lands, I am told. Anything you require?”

Jon shook his head. “It was a long ride. That is why I don’t want to waste time. What is it you require?” Bodyguard work was fine for the knight. While it wasn’t as glamourous, it was a steady line of work.

Illyrio smiled a sly smile as he nodded. “I heard you have an interesting history, my lord. Exiled by the king after your failure . . . and still loyally follow your prince.”

“For serving my prince, I have lost everything I had and could want.” _My lands, my titles, my honour. But it was losing him which was the worst_. Rhaegar with his silver hair, dark violet eyes which could piece into a man’s soul, and the grief he carried around with him.

“It was a shame. You are an inspiring person. To stay so loyal. One of his closest friends and most loyal supporters.” He was twisting one of the pongs of his beard.

“Tell me what you want,” Jon growled from both frustration and anger. All the memories Connington tried to suppress were brought back up by the cheesemonger. He had made a life for himself in Essos, serving the Golden Company. Not the one he wanted, but the best an exiled lord who knew how to use a sword could do in a foreign land where coin was power.

Mopatis’s grin returned, the one which made Jon Connington want to smash the merchants’ crooked teeth in. “My friend, but what if I tell you that there is something for you to live for.” He paused as if for dramatic effect. When Jon didn’t respond, the cheesemonger continued, “His son. Rhaegar’s son still lives.”

_What in the seven hells is he talking about?_ “Aegon?” His silver prince’s son? The one which Princess Elia Martell remained bedridden over. _No, it can’t be. Aegon was killed by the mountain. He had his head smashed against the wall_. “Aegon is dead. Killed during the sack of King’s Landing.” By the Lannister monsters who killed him, his mother and sister. The babe was ripped from his mother’s breast before the monster raped the princess with the child’s brain still on his hands before crushing her head.

Illyrio shook his head. “A false story people believe, I insure you. As it should be. Prince Aegon lives, under this roof.”

Jon’s eyes widened, but he did not let himself be fooled by the magister’s words. “What proof?” He wished the eunuchs didn’t take his sword, so he could press it to the fat man’s throat and see if he kept smirking then.

The Magister turned to the slave and nodded. The blonde haired girl rushed off. “It is simple, my lord. Varys had switched the prince with another . . . one of lesser birth from a family with too many mouths to feed. That was the boy who was killed, not Aegon.” He cocked his head. “Do you wish to see him for yourself?”

If he didn’t offer, Jon was going to grab the magister by the neck and demand it. _Aegon . . . my silver prince’s son_. He thankfully didn’t have to wait long before another two people entered. A young boy and Varys the Spider.

“My sweet lord,” the plump, bald eunuch said he the effeminate way he did. “How pleasant it is to see you’ve come.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Jon almost growled. _What is he doing here?_ He turned to the boy who was standing by the door, his silver hair hiding his eyes. The exiled lord knelt down so he could examine the boy, raising the child’s chin so he could look at the face. The boy seemed desperate to look away and was fidgeting, but after a stern look from Varys, the child looked straight ahead but no less nervous. Connington wasn’t surprised by the boys’ actions. Rhaenys was similar when he first took the little princess from the mother. But whilst the princess looked more like a Dornish girl, with olive skin and dark hair, Aegon looked completely Valyrian, with barely any traces of his mother.

The Master of Whispers giggled. “He’s a smart boy. Courteous, brave and not the kind to stay in the same place for long.” He showed a smile, but not the kind people would find comfortable. “A fan of stories with valiant knights as well. Ser Arthur Dayne, Aemon the Dragonknight, and Ser Galladon of Morne.”

Jon wasn’t fully listening, instead examining for Rhaegar in the boy’s face. It was hard for a child so young. “Aegon?” The child’s eyes were purple, but a slightly lighter shade then the silver prince. _Close enough . . ._

“Y-yes,” the boy replied shyly, his voice soft and barely hearable. “W-who are you?”

Before Jon could answer, Varys said, “The boy is without a father. One to raise him, one to teach him the ways of the world, and one to help him gain his rightful throne.”

Connington felt his chest tighten as he struggled to get out a reply. _This is Rhaegar’s child, his son, his heir_. He swallowed. _I failed the father, I won’t fail the son_. He stood up and turned to both of them. The child was quickly ushered out. “What will you have me do?”

The spider giggled. “You will help him regain his rightful throne, when he is old enough. Ten, fifteen or even twenty years from now. Anything can happen during that time which can benefit Aegon. No matter what, the Lannister and Baratheon alliance can’t last. When the realm is under threat, our young dragon will come and take back what is his.” He smiled. “The bards will sing of that day for decades to come.”

But Jon wasn’t that wide eyed. “What if anything happens to the boy? What if he is like his mother and weak . . . what if he is like his grandfather?” There was a saying that the gods flicked a coin for every Targaryen.

Illyrio laughed, his chins and belly wobbling. “No need to fear. He’s a strong lad, if he falls from a tree, he’s back up it a moment later with even more dedication.” His smile grew. “And he’s not like his grandfather. That much is certain.”

Shy is what he seemed. But Jon didn’t know enough about the boy so he took their word for it. “He’s not the last Targaryen. There is Viserys and the girl, Daenerys.” The prince was sent to Dragonstone before the fall of King’s Landing with Queen Rhaella. The queen died giving birth to the princess, but now the two royals were somewhere in Essos. “What of them? Are they here?”

The magister shook his head. “Whilst Robert believes that Aegon is dead, he knows that the other two are still alive and well. He will be more then glad to kill them. But for now, they are hidden and safe with Ser Willem Darry.”

_A good man, and true_.

Varys quickly added, “This is a dangerous game I’m playing. If Robert finds out about me, I’ll be in danger and with the chance that all our plans are found out and undone. I’m doing my best to protect them, my lord. But I need to keep up the rouse.” Jon grudgingly accepted it. “But when they are older, they can reunite. It brings a tear to my eye to think of a family coming back together.” He tittered.

Jon glanced at the door where Aegon had left. “You saved the boy, but what about the girl? The princess. Why didn’t you save Rhaenys?” He shot a cold stare at the spider. The girl, she was only three when she was killed by the Lannister’s. Stabbed half a hundred times’ if the rumours were correct. He remembered the little girl staring at him with warm dark eyes and with that black kitten rubbing up against her as she cuddled it.

Varys didn’t back down from the stare. He tilted his head slightly and almost showed a sympathetic face. “I couldn’t. I wanted too, but I couldn’t. A babe like Aegon would be easier to remove from the Red Keep and switched with another. But Rhaenys was older . . . and not many children have Dornish blood in the capital—”

“Not many people have Valyrian blood either.”

Varys shook his head. “Blond hair, blue eyes. That was what the boy from Pisswater had. Enough for a child of Aegons age. But Rhaenys was a different matter . . . I didn’t believe they would kill her. Aegon would be in danger because he’s a prince and a claimant . . . a girl on the other hand . . . not many in Westeros want a girl to be a ruler. I was hoping that Stark could get there first. He wouldn’t have killed Princess Rhaenys even if Robert demanded it—”

“You were expecting Aegon to be killed?” _Of course he would_.

The spider nodded. “He’s a threat to Roberts reign. Of course Aegon would be put to death, with Stark knowing or not. Robert Baratheon didn’t think twice about the killing of two children, calling them Dragonspawn.”

Jon pressed his nails into his palm. _I should have razed the town to the ground_. He inhaled sharply. “What are the plans for me?”

It was Illyrio who answered. “My lord Connington, you have experience in the Golden Company and it is known you have a high position within it . . . but not for long. You will have to disappear and fake your own death.”

“What?” _Fake my own death?_

The spymaster nodded. “You will steal from the company’s war chest and die from drinking in your grief. Not a heroic way to go, but that is exactly the point. No one grieves or sings for a common thief and drunkard. Your name will turn to sand and blow in the wind. No one will remember you.”

The exiled lord barely restrained his anger. “You ask me to dishonour myself? I have lost everything _but_ my honour and you ask me to lose that?”

Varys was unfazed. “The need for secrecy is greater than your honour, my lord. This is the safest cause of action. If people remember you, they could follow our trail, as little as it is. It will be easier if people believed you are dead and disgraced. A person forgotten.” He tilted his head. “If you want to avenge your prince, then help us. Help his son gain the throne which is his and raise him to be the best king he could possibly be. One who the smallfolk can look up to and love, but one what the lords both respect and fear.”

Jon lowered his head and clinched his fists. _A hard line to walk, eunuch_. He exhaled deeply. “I will do so,” he said grudgingly. “But be careful, if you try to deceive me or put the boy’s life in danger, I will find you and end you.” He looked up and the plump man’s face showed some level of fear to Connington’s satisfaction.

“Fear not, my lord. I will do nothing of the sort.” He smiled that sly smile. The smile Jon didn’t trust.

Illyrio smiled. “It has been a long ride and there is much more to say. I’m sure you’ll like some rest and perhaps you can speak with the boy some more.” He chuckled. “Fear not, my griffin. He’s shy, but he will talk when he’s used to your presence.” Jon agreed and they walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternative universe fic. In Westeros, the story continues like cannon. Whilst in Essos, both Daenerys and Aegon meet when they’re young and travel around the Free Cities before organising their invasion.  
> This is my first ASoIaF fic so please critique and comment, as well as suggest ways for me to improve.


	2. Aegon

 

The prince sat in the manse library as his tutor taught him.

The lessons he received were always long and consisted of a multitude of different subjects. First it was languages: with Aegon being taught the common tongue of Westeros, the various dialects of the free cities as well as High Valyrian. The boy found it frustrating. Each of the Free Cities had their own variant of the language. Much of it was similar with only a few changes, but it was the accent and many times he just couldn’t pronounce it properly. It annoyed the boy to no end when he got them mixed up.

After languages it was history, a subject which Aegon much preferred. It was Haldon’s idea to go through the history of the Targaryen family in order from Aegon the first to the present. The prince found much enjoyment in learning of Aegons conquest as well as the Dance of the Dragons. Now it was about the conquest of Dorne which Aegon was much looking forward to.

Daeron the Young Dragon was a hero of his, a young conqueror who seeked to do what even the great Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons could not. Then the king was fourteen, he launched an invasion of the independent Dorne. Three armies were sent south. Alyn Velaryon leading an invasion from the sea, he took Planky Town and sailed up the Green Blood; Daeron led his own army down the Boneway; whilst the other was led by Lord Lyonel Tyrell who attacked through the Prince’s Pass. That same Tyrell was place in charge of Dorne, but was assassinated which caused a revolt to spread like wildfire. All the young dragons’ achievements were swiftly undone. Ten thousand men died in the war, but fifty thousand died trying to hold it. _Shows the ferocity the Dornish have_ , Aegon had thought when he looked it up in Magister Illyrio’s library. _I’m half their blood. They will fight for me when the time comes_.

“We will now discuss the Conquest of Dorne,” Haldon said in the calm voice of his. He was a patient teacher, never getting angry and him and always correcting his student when he made a mistake. “I know you’ve been busy learning it for yourself.” He showed a sly little smile. “Perhaps you care to tell me what you’ve learned?”

Aegon did. The boy listed everything he had read about the conquest: all the dates, all the lords and famous knights and important events. Like the submission of Sunspear and the Dornish hostages which had been sent back to King’s Landing to ensure Dornes loyalty, while it worked on the highborn, it didn’t stop the smallfolk. The hand of the king, Viserys Targaryen, wanted to execute the hostages after the young dragon was slain, but was refused by the new king, Baelor the first who instead went barefoot to Dorne to forge the peace. After he was done speaking, Aegon leaned back on his chair, smiled a smug grin and waited for the praise to be heaped upon him.

It didn’t come.

Halfmaester stood silent. “Wrong,” he said abruptly. That surprised the boy, who felt his body freeze at the word. Haldon sighed. “At some parts. Use your own intuitive boy, and learn to separate the lies from the truth. Dorne doesn’t have fifty thousand men. Look at the geography. It is one of the least populated kingdoms in Westeros, yet according to the so-called history books, it can field an army greater than the Vale, the North or the Riverlands. _No it can’t_. King Daeron extravagated the numbers to make his victory seem more glorious and impressive than it actually was, and it seems the Dornish aren’t rushing to tell the truth of the matter.”

The boy was surprised by that, but Aegon was also quite proud of it in a way. _They had less men and still resisted the might of the Iron Throne_. He showed a smile. _I’ve got their blood flowing through my veins. The snake and the dragon_. But the one thing he disliked was their use of dishonourable tactics, like killing the king under a banner of peace or the use of poisons. _I will never do that_ , he had vowed one day, shortly after claiming he would be the most heroic knight. Jon Connington had shook his head, almost hiding a slight smirk whilst Septa Lemore smiled that motherly smile of hers.

Like always, Haldon corrected the boy’s mistakes and told Aegon to go back over it. Then the lesson turned to maths and writing. Aegon preferred the latter whilst the former confused him, especially when it became more complicated. At the end the prince was getting restless and was unable to come up with solutions to the problems he was given. Besides a few subtle hints, he was left to find it out on his own.

It felt like forever before Haldon glanced up at the stained glass windows and said, “You may go now, lad. But improve your geometrics. A true king uses the quill as much as a sword.”

Aegon thanked his teacher and left the library, almost running through the halls in relief. The servants glanced at him with emotionless eyes, but he didn’t care. They never spoke and did as they were told, always without question. The prince headed straight to Jon who had been teaching him the basics of sword fighting since a year ago, just like a page. When he would get older, Aegon would become a squire and eventually a knight, something he wanted since listening to Septa Lemore read him stories about knights like Aemon Targaryen the Dragonknight, as well as ones like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Ryam Redwyne. All valiant knights he inspired to be. Aegon had dreamed of being placed alongside them and as such, he practised as hard as he could to keep to the ideals. Whilst Jon Connington taught him and arms how to lead, and Halfmester taught him to be a scholar; Septa Lemore taught him about the faith of the seven and how to be a good person, a worthy king and a true knight, one which people would look up to and respect.

As was usual, Jon Connington was waiting outside in the courtyard. He was clad in a padded gambeson jacket and holding two blunted swords. “So you’ve finally come,” the exiled lord said with impatience in his voice. “Has your halfmaester finally taught you how to conquer Westeros?”

Aegon shook his head. “No . . . but I learned about the conquest of Dorne.” He took the sword which felt heavy in his hands, but Jon claimed it would get lighter as he used it more.

“With all the time you spend with your head in the books, I thought you would be teaching him,” Jon said with a rare smile and Aegon grinned before they practised sparring. The swords rang in the courtyard, with Jon remaining stationary and was more focused on parrying Aegons strikes whilst instructing him. Occasionally he taught the boy different techniques: like half-swording which would have to be used against knights in full plate, as well as how to effectively do a murder-stroke which involved holding the sword blade and using the crossguard like a hammer or mace. 

During the middle of their session; Magister Illyrio strode over. His entire belly jiggling as he walked on thick legs. “My friends,” he bellowed. Both stopped their sparring lesson and turned to the Magister. Aegon was very much thankful for all the merchant prince had done to help him with basically everything, from raising him in his manse when he was a babe to giving him all the skills he would need to take back Westeros from the usurper. “I have news. Tragic, but at the same time, possibly beneficial.”

“What would that be?” Jon said in the usual distrustful tone he used when talking with the Magister. For a reason Aegon couldn’t understand, Connington didn’t like the merchant.

Illyrio ignored the lord’s tone and turned to the boy. “You know your uncle and aunt, lad?”

Aegon nodded, even though he was seldom told of them. Both fled Dragonstone when the garrison were going to sell them to the usurper and they had been residing within Braavos for around six years. The prince had asked and begged for Magister Illyrio to bring them here so he could be with his family, but the merchant had just rustled his hair and said it was too risky. “What about them?” A few things went through his head about what it could be. Some were good, but others were bad, such as them being found by the usurper and killed. He begged the latter wasn’t the case. “Are they safe,” his voice was hushed but desperate.

“Thankfully they are,” Illyrio’s voice was solemn. “Ser Willem Darry has died and the servants stole what little money they still had.”

Aegon's heart sank. They were his family, he may not know them but they were his blood. “What are they going to do now?” His voice started off soft but quickly got louder. “We have to help them. They are my family . . . they are Targaryen’s, the blood of the dragon. We can’t leave them to roam the streets . . . they can be safe here. Just as you protected me, you can protect them.” He was more than willing to beg the magister if he could achieve it. He couldn’t let his family down. _What kind of king would I be if I can’t even protect my family?_

Magister Illyrio smiled, showing crooked teeth and Jon placed a gentle hand on the boys shoulder. “No worries, my prince. They are coming here.” Aegon was immediately comforted by the news. He could finally see his aunt and uncle. Then the Targaryen’s could be united. “I’ve sent men and they will arriving shortly, if the gods are willing.”

“Thank you Magister. Thankyou.” Aegon never felt so relieved in his life and breathed a sigh of relief.

“No need to thank me lad,” the cheese merchant smirked. “This is just one step or many in order to retake the throne.” He did a gentle nod and left, his footsteps somehow light even for the man’s massive girth.

When he left, the boy turned around with a wide grin. “Can you believe it Jon. _I get to see them_. My aunt and uncle.”

Connington didn’t look as pleased as he hoped. “I just hope this doesn’t pose a threat to you.”

“Why would it? I was safe for all these years.”

The griffins face was stern. “Only because they believe your dead.”

That made a cold shiver go down the boy’s spine and he looked at the ground. To those in Westeros, he had died when the usurpers dogs had killed him with his sister and mother. When Aegon had asked why his sister and mother couldn’t be saved, Illyrio said it was because she was too old and too easily recognisable. A babe was harder to identify and what happened only made it impossible for them. The lad didn’t like the sound of that and got mad at the spider for failing to do so.

Aegon felt his face go red. The mere thought if what happened that day. Tywin Lannsiter had tricked his way into the city and killed his family. It was Jaime Lannister who was assigned to protect the king and it was him who had stabbed his liege in the back before sitting atop the throne while the boy’s family was killed. “I will kill them. I will kill all of them.” He saw his arms shaking.

A low groan came from the back of Connington’s throat. His face was screwed up like he was remembering something similar. “Not now and not like this. You will go back to Westeros, with an army standing behind your back. But first you need to learn how to lead, how to fight and how to rule. Like a true king.”

Aegon nodded. “I will.” Then they continued practising.

It was late morning when Aegon dressed himself in the finest clothes Magister Illyrio had to give him. A soft lambswool and silk tunic. Black and red, the Targaryen colours and a three headed dragon on his breast. He was washed and the manse servants trimmed and neatened his blond hair. All so he could be better presented in front of his relatives.

He had barely slept the night before, spending almost the entire night envisioning how it would all turn out, what they would look like and how they would act. Aegon imagined his uncle being a tall man, with silver-gold hair or platinum, standing proudly like a dragon and with a voice which just made people want to follow him. He imagined his aunt being tall and beautiful, one who would quickly embrace him once she found out he was alive. Aegon didn’t receive much information about in terms of what they looked like, so his imagination was running wild. Only exhaustion made him slumber.

The prince stood in front of the doors to the manse. Plump Unsullied lined up on both sides of the stone pathway; each in a quilted tunic, spiked bronze caps and with spear and shield. Six on both sides, each standing like statues. Waiting for the other two Targaryen’s was Aegon, Magister Illyrio, Jon Connington and Septa Lemore.

After some time, the boy was beginning to grow restless. The prince had lost time of how long they were waiting. The outriders had arrived before and told them that his aunt and uncle were close. As he was fidgeting, Aegon felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder. It helped him calm down slightly. The septa was always kind to him and comforted him when he needed it. This was one of those times. Usually a simple acknowledgement of her presence was enough, her urging him to continue and giving gentle pushes of encouragement. He exhaled and continued waiting.

Thankfully not for long.

The wheelhouse came into view, escorted by swords in Illyrio’s employ. That was when Aegon felt his legs weaken and knots form in his belly. He felt queasy, and a part of him wanted to run and hide. The doors slowly opened and his heart sank. Two people stepped out, both little in the way he imagined. The first was a man, with harsh features and a cautious look to him, he was clad in soiled wools as well as carrying a small sack which he clutched tightly onto his person. The other was a girl younger then himself, she looked at the manse with large purple eyes and a look of awe.

Neither were the way Aegon had hoped, or even expected. When his uncle’s eyes turned to him, they looked at him with venom. The face made Aegon want to shy away and hide. _No, I’m the blood of the dragon_ , he reminded himself. _He’s my uncle, he will understand_.

Magister Illyrio quickly walked over, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to my humble home. I must say it’s more than an honour to have all the Targaryen’s here before me. More than an honour, I must say.” He smiled wide. Princess Daenerys stepped back behind her brother while Viserys just looked at the magister with distrust, a similar way to Jon. “May I introduce myself, I am Illyrio Mopatis. Magister to this fair city of Pentos and one of your biggest supporters.”

Viserys then grinned a cocky grin. “Thank you magister. Remember that I’ll never forget my friends by the time I finally get my throne.”

_His throne?_

“Then stay as long as you wish then,” Illyrio said, all smiles and courtesies. “I could never turn away the blood of the dragon—”

“ _My_ throne don’t you mean,” Aegon spoke up.

His uncles response was instant, the harsh face turned to him like lightning. His pale lilac eyes full of both shock and revulsion. It was enough to make Aegon shy away. “Who are you? Some whelp. How dare you talk back to me and how dare you wear my family’s colours.” He took a step forward.

Illyrio stopped him. “This my dear prince, is Prince Aegon Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. _Your nephew_.”

 _He sees me as a threat_. He could see through the different reactions his uncle showed. Surprise, confusion and others, more violent and dangerous. _He thought he would be king. He thought I was dead_.

“How . . . how is that possible . . . Aegons dead. My nephew _is_ dead . . . him and his sister. Killed by the usurper’s dogs.”

“No he is not,” the exiled lord quickly replied. “I’m Jon Connington. I was a friend to your brother. This is his son. The son which was switched out by Varys and has been kept here.”

“Jon Connington,” he said the words like he was remembering them. “The one who allowed the usurper to live during the Battle of the Bells?”

Jon looked hurt when Viserys said that. It was among the things the lord regretted most, Jon constantly said he should had done more, should had been more ruthless and should have killed Robert Baratheon there and stop the civil war in its tracks. “It is true.”

Before the conversation could escalate further, Illyrio clapped his hands together. “I’m sure you’re both tired from the long ride. My servants can escort you to your rooms and you can get properly cleaned, clothed and fed. Ask of them what you wish, none will dare refuse you. Then we can talk further.” Viserys glanced at Aegon before accepting the offer, which a servant escorted him into the building. The magister turned to Aegon. “Perhaps you can escort your dear aunt to her room?”

Aegon bowed his head. His younger aunt looked at him with both a mixture of shyness and fascination. “May I have the honour,” he asked and offered a hand, just the way he had been taught. The young girl looked at the faces looking down at her. She looked lost and alone, but took the offered hand with some hesitation.

Before he took her inside, Septa Lemore whispered in his ear, “Be gentle with the girl. Be her knight.” She had that warm smile. Aegon smirked and nodded.

She walked slower then he would have liked – that was when she didn’t walk away to look at anything which spiked her interest: paintings, vases or pedestals holding various relics. Whilst Aegon allowed his young aunt to look, he refrained her from touching anything. He remembered that one time he ran through the corridors and crashed into a pedestal with a priceless figure from Yi Ti. He winced at the thought of it happening again, especially as he remembered Illyrio’s wrath. The last thing Aegon wanted was a repeat of the incident with one of his host’s belongings being accidently broken.

Then they got to her door, she finally spoke out. “Are you really my mother Rhaegar’s son?” Her voice was soft, like she was afraid of speaking.

“I am,” he replied gently. Aegon thought it was a stupid question, but he supposed it would be common enough for him too have to constantly answer. He opened the door for her. “I can assure you that I am.”

“Viserys said you died . . . by the usurpers hands.”

He smiled at her, a forced smile. He didn’t like being reminded of that, it always reminded him about what happened with his mother and sister. “Varys switched me out with another.”

Daenerys had a curious look on her face as it looked like she was studying him. Then she smiled. “I always wanted a nephew . . . but I thought . . . but I thought you would be younger.”

“And I thought you would be older.” They both softly laughed at the jest. She was closer to his age then Viserys was, who looked four-and-ten, while Daenerys was two years Aegons junior. The prince turned to the room. It was well furnished, with everything she could ever need and want. “This is your room.”

She stared at it with wide eyes before slowly taking a few steps inside. “This is mine?”

He couldn’t help but smile at the shock in her voice, like she had never seen a room this big before. Connington had once said that there were hovels in Westeros which were not even a quarter of the size. “Of course it is. Something worthy of a Targaryen princess.” With that, she didn’t waste time exploring and finishing it by throwing herself on the feature bed, almost drowning in the softness.

While she was doing that, Aegon was watching by the door with an odd fascination. Daenerys turned around with a wide smile. “This is perfect,” she almost squealed. “Braavos was much smaller.”

Aegon’s interest spiked at that word. “Mind if I ask what happened?”

His aunt turned nervous, losing all the original excitement and suddenly he felt guilty. She looked at the floor and her words were soft. He had to get closer to hear. “They . . . after Ser Darry left . . . t-they stole the little we had. Viserys managed to take some of our things . . . before they kicked us out.” She looked close to tears.

 _Be her knight_ , Septa Lemore’s words rang in his head before he comforted her. She clinched his tunic and cried onto his shoulder, mumbling incoherently. Lemore would know what to do, but not him. Aegon just let her get it all out until she pulled away and wiped the tears and snot away with the back of her hand. “Daenerys,” he softly said. “You are safe here. You’re safe with me. I will always protect you.”

The girls face lit up end then hugged him again. “Will you be my dragonknight?”

The thought made the boy smile. “And your king.”

She pulled away and then looked puzzled. “Viserys will be king . . .  wouldn’t he? He said he would.”

Aegon was unsure how to respond with that. He was told he was the rightful king, but Viserys was older. “Is he?”

“Viserys said he was named heir by father. That would make him king . . . right?”

Once again, Aegon didn’t know how to respond. Before he was so sure that he was the heir and the rightful king, but if Daenerys was right, that would make him the spare to the throne and Viserys was the rightful heir. With the question nagging in his head, Aegon went to search for the answer and found Jon in his chambers, packing his things into a crate. The exiled lord didn’t notice him walk in. “Jon,” the prince asked as he tugged the lord’s doublet. “Viserys is older, does that make him the heir, not me?”

Connington stopped what he was doing and turned around. Some confusion filled his weathered face. “Viserys is a prince, the second son. Your father was the crown prince. The sons of the firstborn come before the second son. Therefor you are the next in line. Why do you ask?”

“Viserys says he is the rightful king . . .  that King Aerys had chosen him to be the heir, not me.”

Jon rolled his eyes. He hated King Aerys, the one who exiled him. “Aerys was mad, what’s why he’s called the mad king. He filled his courts with lickspittle lords who were there solely because they praised his every action and he showered them with lands and honours because they agreed with what he said.” Connington was clearly mad and his face was red. “ _Those same lords who spoke ill of your father and fed the kings madness._ ”

“Jon?”

The exiled lord turned to him and quickly calmed down as he breathed out. “ _You_ are the rightful king. The one who will take back your families throne. Viserys will help you, but he won’t be king.”

Aegon nodded and then looked into the crate which was full of clothes and resting atop were a few swords. “What is this for? Are you leaving?”

“Yes. _We’re_ leaving the manse.”

That caught the boy by surprise. “What?” He had never left the manse, they said it was too dangerous and that he needed to remain hidden from the usurpers knives. “Why?”

Jon folded an undyed tunic and placed it on top. “With Viserys and Daenerys arriving here, the usurpers knives will soon follow. If they find you, our secret will be found out. You will come with us, around Essos, one step ahead of the usurpers and their dogs.”

Aegon didn’t know how to take the news. He was happy his family was here and although they weren’t what he expected, he was looking forward to their time together. He was also excited about finally leaving the manse, where he had been restrained since he was born. Aegon had always wanted to leave the protective walls and see what’s outside, but he was terrified that the usurper could be following him.

Like he could read the boys thoughts, Jon Connington rustled the lad’s hair. “I think you’ll like it. You always said how much you wanted to leave and see the world.” He showed a small smile. “You will need to learn the world as much as your books.”

“But would that mean—”

“—that halfmaester and the septa are with us. Yes, but in a few days’ time. To where, I don’t exactly know; but you will need to be hidden, your identity, past, everything. No one can know you are Aegon Targaryen. No one can know that any of you are Targaryen’s.” The lad nodded. “Good. Remember not to mention anything about it once we leave those gates. Got it.” The boy looked into the pale blue eyes of Connington and agreed. “You may make a good king yet.” He rustled the boy’s hair and told him to leave.


	3. Jon Connington II

 

The exiled lord watched the wave’s batter against the side of the hull. In the early morning – while it was still dark – they had left the free city of Pentos, in one of Illyrio’s trading cogs. Jon stood atop the sterncastle, turning his attention to check for the pirates who usually prowled the Stepstones. There were other ships in the distance, but they all kept their distance from each other and for that, Jon was thankful.

Both Daenerys and Aegon were playing on the deck, much to the annoyance of the crewmen. The girl reminded Jon of Aegon when they had first met. Daenerys was shy and didn’t seem the kind to open up easily to strangers. But the two seemed to like each other well enough. It was pleasant to see, Aegon didn’t have anyone his age to play with. Jon could remember when he was Aegons age, he would play with the other pages serving his father’s household. _Maybe that is why he had his nose stuck in all those books_.

Viserys meanwhile . . . Viserys. Jon Connington didn’t know what to think of the boy. Back when he was still in the Red Keep, Aerys was very paranoid of his youngest son’s potential death and protected him beyond reason. The Kingsguard watched the boy day and night, with even the boy’s mother being forbidden to be alone with her son. Aerys had a food taster to drink the wet nurses milk to make sure there was no poison smeared on the nipples. Any gifts the boy received from lords trying to get the kings favour were all burnt, for they might be cursed. When Rhaegar married Elia Martell at the Great Sept of Baelor, Viserys was unable to attend. That did make him fill some pity towards the prince. What he saw in the Red Keep while he was still with Rhaegar was enough, but his silver prince also told him what happened behind closed doors.

Even though he wasn’t in the streets anymore, it didn’t seem the exile helped the boy much. Viserys was more the Mad King’s son, rather than Rhaegar’s brother. Jon Connington was thankful he didn’t spend much time on deck, instead preferring to remain inside his cabin. Viserys also kept his sack with him at all times – the sack which held the Targaryen families processions. When Daenerys once tried to show Aegon the few they managed to save, the older prince had yelled at his nephew. _He still doesn’t believe Aegon is his kin_. In a sad way, Jon had expected that.

The knight leaned against the rails, his eyes trailing after a Braavosi galley with its purple sails and painted hull. Their own destination was the fair city of Lys, where they were too meet Varys the spider. Jon still had the scroll on him, something he always kept close by. _Meet in the Golden Valyrian_ , it said. Varys had chosen Lys because it had the strongest amount of Valyrian blood, so three silver haired, purple eyed children wouldn’t rise many questions or look too much out of place.

“They do look happy together,” Septa Lemore said with a slight smile. She was still clad in her white septa’s robes, her brown hair blowing in the wind. He followed her gaze to where both were chasing each other, narrowly avoiding the sailors. “How long do you think that would last?”

“Excuse me?”

She wiped some strands of hair out of her eyes. “They are innocent for now, _naïve_. But they will have to learn some harsh lessons later in their lives. Illyrio did shelter the boy . . . perhaps a bit too much.” 

_While Viserys is more experienced_. Not like that was saying much. Jon doubted Daenerys was either. She was a curious girl, a little too much for her own good, he thought. The lord hoped it would lessen later on, she was a young girl and the young tended to be naturally curious. _Not a good thing for us now_. But listening to Lady Lemore’s words, they would learn some harsh lessons later on. But he didn’t feel the need to tell them yet. “Perhaps.”

The Septa smirked but her face quickly turned serious. “Are you sure of this? The spiders plan?”

Connington shook his head. He didn’t trust Varys, there was something about the eunuch which just made Jon’s skin crawl. “I don’t trust the man.” _If he can be called a man_. The spider did have a history of manipulation and pitting people against each other, as well as having uncertain loyalties which could change upon a whim. But for what Jon hated about the eunuch, he was important. Varys was a voice in Roberts’s small council and knew what was happening in Westeros. “I don’t want to, but we have little choice in the matter.” _I vowed to end him if he does anything and I will strangle him with my own hands if he does_.

“Neither of us do.” It was a sad smile she showed before she turned to watch them play. Daenerys had slipped. Aegon was initially laughing but a stern look from Lady Lemore made him help her back up and the little princess started crying, the septa gave the lad a sharp glance before proceeding to the girl.

While she was doing that, Jon turned back around and stared west, to Westeros. _I will come back to you. I promise you, my silver haired prince. I’ll avenge you and put your son on the throne._

The port of Lys was busy with trading and pleasure boats when they docked. Jon glanced cautiously at many in the crowd, none of them paying the royals the slightest bit of attention. _Don’t get lazy, the usurpers men would likely be hiding in the crowds_. Even whilst he was busy checking everything one who stepped to close, Jon didn’t fail to see that the city was beautiful: with white stone buildings and wide open streets, the green-blue waters and the rock formations of the natural harbour.

As he both expected and feared, both Aegon and Daenerys wanted to look around. The girl tugged at his hand to try and led him towards anything which spiked her interest – which seemed to be most things. Aegon was likewise, but preferred to keep a distance even though he regularly stopped to watch the many mummer shows, singers and dancers, as well as duelling bravos with their bright clothes and slender swords.

Much to Lady Lemore’s amusement, it was Jon and Viserys who had to keep the young ones under reigns, almost dragging them through the streets to the lodge. It took longer than he expected to be found, sandwiched between two larger establishments of questionable character. _The spider does know how to choose them_.

“This is the place?” Viserys muttered under his breath. “Why would we meet him here?” The Targaryen prince had his hand wrapped around the handle of his shortsword. He never let his hands too far from it.  

“He set it up for us to meet him here.” Jon grumbled. “If we went anywhere finer, we may be discovered.” He gestured them inside the dingy establishment. He expected the spider to meet him somewhere like this. It was a contrast to the city, which was beautiful like its people until you look deep enough. The interior was thick with the scent of cheap wine, onions and smoke; it was all so stuffy that it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to be here,” Daenerys complained they found a seat at a table in the darkened corner. “It’s too horrible . . . that man gives me looks.”

“We need to,” Viserys gently said as he took his little sisters hand. “He’s an important ally. He will help to take us back to Westeros when the time comes.”

“No need to fear, child. We are safe here,” Lemore comforted. Just before docking, she had changed out of her Septa robes and into clothes which could be expected of the wife of a trader. The little princess did seem to calm down slightly and pressed closer to her.

“May I take a seat, milord,” came a thick voice. Jon looked up and saw a figure with a face shadowed by a hood. Master of disguise he is, Jon thought. If Varys didn’t say the latter part, he could have mistaken the spider for anyone else. The voice was different, the look was different and the spider even made sure to cover himself in the stench of cheap wine. He chuckled, but continued in the false voice. “So these are them then. May I say that you very much look like what I expected . . .”

Viserys went to interrupt “So you are—”

“— A humble friend, yes.” Varys glanced at the younger two. Aegon had seen the eunuch before but did seem confused on why he was dressed like that whilst Daenerys was just puzzled on who he was. “Interesting . . . interesting.” He pulled out a key and laid it on the table. “Maybe it is best that I speak with you alone.” He then turned to Lemore. “Top floor, second room on the right.”

Jon nodded and turned to Lemore. “Perhaps it is best. Take them with you.” She frowned at the spider before taking the hands of both Aegon and Daenerys and taking them away. Viserys was more grudging. The prince wanted to talk and question what was going to happen but a stern look made him follow his family, muttering all the while.

“I must say that all three of them look strong and healthy.”

It was something Jon Connington was grateful for. Initially he was worried for Aegon, with his mother being Elia Martell Jon feared the boy may have inherited his mother’s delicate health. “I am glad they are. But I’d rather just get down to business. I don’t want to waste time here.” His eyes glanced at a group of men in the corner, laughing and drinking. _Anyone of them could . . ._

“That is understandable. But we need to move forward in our plan. With all the Targaryen’s in one place, it will be all the much less safe for them. That is why I want to fake their deaths, as I did yours,” the spider’s voice was hushed.

“Like with me drinking my death here?” The Golden Valyrian was where he was supposedly to have met his end, drinking away the company’s war chest. _You’re a cruel jester_.

Varys giggled, his voice getting to its higher pitch. “This spider can weave a web of deceit to trick Robert into believing they are all dead. That will make him most happy. Most happy indeed. But for that to work, they would need to be hidden, even more so . . . dye their hair. Yes. Blue, that would do most best, in the way of Tyrosh. Even better is that it would help cover their eyes, making them appear blue instead of purple.” He showed a sly little grin and tilted his head. “But they’ll all need their own names and identities . . . your sigil is the griffin, so why not Griff? A sellsword with his son and daughter.”

“Son? Wouldn’t that be sons?”

Varys clicked his tongue and shook his head slightly. “That may not be the case, sadly. It may be better if you only have the one. Aegon . . . Aegon you know, how polite and kind the boy is. But Viserys . . . Viserys could be a burden. Especially if he sees our sweet Aegon as a threat to the throne and decides the child is a danger that needs to be dealt with.”

That made Jon flinch. Viserys did have more of his father in him, he wasn’t going to deny that. But murder him? Jon didn’t want to murder a child. Yet again, he didn’t want to murder children in Stoney Sept and that cost him time which allowed the rebels to rescue Robert and allowed the war to end with the near destruction of the Targaryen dynasty, as well as the death of his silver prince. _If only I was more like Tywin. He would have burned the entire place down and there would be no civil war_. “But to murder?”

Varys clicked his tongue again. “It is what needs to be done. How long do you think it may take for him to fall to his father’s madness?” Jon paused. “Viserys was isolated and spent much time with the mad king, you know how impressionable children at that age are. It just makes him becoming his father all the more likely. That’s not to mention being kicked out of his home and being exiled into a foreign land, caring for a little girl. That kind of thing can affect a child’s mind.”

Jon gritted his teeth. He didn’t like the sound of it, but it may be necessary. He had seen the way Viserys looked at his nephew. The way the lad coldly stared at Aegon made Jon think he was going to push him into the sea. If the older prince did kill his nephew to remove competition, he would be a kinslayer and few people would willing follow a kinslayer. With reluctance, Jon agreed and Varys carefully slid him a viral.

“Tears of Lys,” the eunuch said softly. “Tasteless, odourless and leaves no trace. To him, it would just feel like a stomach pain. Nothing more. No one else besides us will know.”

“I’m only doing it because I have little other choice in the matter.” _Aegon needs to be on the throne, he is the rightful king_.

The spider made his face look sad yet his eyes were cold. “It is for the best.” There was a pause. “Shall we move away from such dreadful conversation and turn to something more hopeful and needed?” He didn’t pause. “Aegon needs to be seen as the perfect prince. Many people have lost trust in the Targaryen’s. They once looked at them with both fear and awe, but that was when dragons existed. But now they look at them like abominations with queer customs. Both of them need to be rulers that both the smallfolk and the highborn look up to and support. Ones that are tough, but fair. Ones who know the struggles of the smallfolk and want to help them, but at the same time, having support of the nobles.”

“A fine balance that is, eunuch.” Aegon the fifth tried to help the smallfolk, but the nobles resisted his actions as taking away their rights. Much of what he done was removed by Tywin Lannister and that made him very popular among the highborn.

“It is indeed. But only if he is raised correctly, you are one who you can guide him towards it. Raise him to be fair, intelligent and wise, with a knowledge of both sword and scroll. When he comes to restore his family’s throne, people will flock to him.” Varys let out a soft giggle. “The prince everyone thought dead comes back to regain his families throne. The bards will sing of his life for centuries to come.”

“You speak fine of Aegon, but what about Daenerys?”

Varys shrugged his shoulders. “She isn’t the priority, but the princess can learn and rule alongside him, as is the Targaryen tradition.” He showed a sly smile. “It will work well to support his claim.” Jon frowned. “Be aware that many will see our precious boy as being fake, a pretender. Daenerys can assist with his claim, show the realm that he is the rightful king.” Before Jon could respond, the spider quickly stood up. “I’ll love to stay and talk further, my lord. But I have important duties to be doing.” He showed another sly grin. “Hopefully you will do proper.”

The eunuch left without making a sound and Jon stared at the viral in the palm of his hand.


	4. Daenerys

 

She was proud of herself when she finished.

A simple linen cloth of black, and sewn on was the red three headed dragon of her house. Even though Septa Lemore warned her not to do anything relating to her family, Daenerys wanted to give her nephew a favour for when he came back.

The septa leaned slightly closer and looked at it. She didn’t seem unimpressed. “I keep telling you,” her voice was stern, but had a motherly gentleness to it. “You should be working.”

“No one will know,” the young girl replied with a shy laugh. The septa just looked at her for a brief moment before continuing to patch-up some clothes. Daenerys looked at the small piece of fabric proudly, before putting it away and continuing to work. They had been doing it for the last few days, in which Dany would take brief breaks to work on her embroidery, even with her septa’s warnings. Whenever they stopped at any of the Free Cities, they would all be put to work.

Even though Magister Illyrio would send them supplies – whether it would be coin, clothes or anything else which may prove valuable – it was only after extended periods and they regularly had to work. Not that Dany minded, she liked using her hands and she enjoyed the times when she wasn’t treated like a princess but instead a common girl; where Aegon was her older brother and Jon and Septa Lemore were her father and mother. It was only a masquerade, but it felt the closest and truest feeling of a proper family she had.

After Viserys died in his bed, it was Aegon who acted as her older brother. She missed Viserys, her big brother who told her stories of Westeros, the home she had never seen. He would tell her about the Seven Kingdoms and taking back their throne and saying how she would be queen and that everyone will bow down to her, celebrating their return. She missed her brother greatly.

After Viserys’ passing, Aegon stepped up to take that position and did his best to fulfil it. She would usually sit beside her nephew as he read out the history of Westeros or tell her stories of its great heroes and villains. When she was younger, Daenerys had wanted to know how to use a sword, just like Queen Visenya. Whilst Jon and Lemore disagreed with her wish, Aegon accepted after much begging on her part. But when he had hit her hand and she cried, she didn’t try again.

“Do you know when Griff is back, mother?” Daenerys asked all smiles as she pushed a needle through a blue linen dress to patch up a simple tear near the sleeve. It was Septa Lemore who had taught both her and Aegon to repair their own clothes. While Dany never knew her mother, Viserys told her how much she cared for her children and how beautiful she was. Her brother had been furious when they were kicked out the house in Braavos, and Viserys blamed her for their mother’s death. That was the worst he had treated her, a few times he had yelled at or belittled her when he was angry, but that was a rare occurrence.

Her fake mother smiled. “They were to come when they finished fishing.”

Three days had past she had last seen Aegon and Griff. Like her, they had dyed their hair blue and it very much helped to disguise them. The blue would hide their silver and even their eyes, with Daenerys Tyroshi accent serving well. Not that Jon minded as much about maintaining it when they went to places such as Lys, where even the smallfolk had Valyrian features.

Before Dany could reply, she felt a sharp pain go through her finger. With a quick cry, she leaned back in her chair. She looked at her finger where a small bead of blood rose up from the prick. “Perhaps you should have been paying attention,” the Septa muttered without taking her eyes off her work. After a moment, she glanced up when Dany sucked the blood. “Let me have a look at it,” Lemore ordered. She took Dany’s hand and gave a quick look at the small dot which was the wound. “You’ll live.” Then she let go.

In the corner of her eye, Dany saw Lemore show a quick smirk and they continued stitching. It took most of the day before the tailor come over and inspecting their work, seemingly content with that they had done and in return for their service they were given a few Qohor marks which had a goat on one side. Daenerys was intrigued by the Qohor’s obsession with goats, such as the Black Goat what they worshiped and was offered blood sacrifices, mostly from animals as well as slaves but if the situation demands it, the children of the highborn. It all had made her sad the first time she heard it and Daenerys was thankful she didn’t reside there. 

“What now, mother,” Daenerys asked as they wondered through the town of Qohne. It was among the biggest town she had never seen, with Jon claiming it was larger than Gulltown and White harbour, which were amongst the biggest cities in Westeros. It even looked like a city, with cobbled streets, stone walls and multi-storied buildings. Outside was the great forest of Qohor, but she never went outside the walls of the various settlements they visited.

“Go back to the lodge and wait there,” Lemore said with a warm smile, but frowned once she heard the ravings of a red priest. “Remember not to listen to the mad shouts of those heretics.”

Daenerys nodded knowingly. She was told at a young age that the red priest’s mouths were full of false and dangerous words. “I will never.”

The lodge was a modest building made of timber and thatch. They had been staying there for around a few weeks, with Daenerys wishing to go somewhere different, like Lys or Braavos. She much preferred those to Qohor and its smaller surrounding settlements. Both sat at a round table in the far corner of the lodge which was crowded by a group of traders who were being entertained by a Qohor throat singer. After Septa Lemore ordered food, they both received a bowl full of thick stew. Daenerys didn’t like the taste, making a face whenever the substance touched her tongue. They had nearly finished eating when the door opened and Dany just barely resisted leaping up from her seat when her nephew and Jon walked in. Instead of speaking, she just gave a short wave, with Aegon’s frown disappearing.

“May I ask how the . . . fishing was, my child,” Lemore asked as she turned to Young Griff.

Aegon rolled his eyes and sat down. “I didn’t do fishing. They made me do work like a slave. Clean clothes, help repair the nets. All the boring stuff.”

Griff shook his head. Dany could see the red roots of his hair that could use a fresh coat of dye. “It’s a useful skill, lad. You need to learn how to do these things. It will help you out in the future.” Young Griff rolled his eyes again and had a look of boredom and frustration. Older Griff just released an annoyed groan and turned to Daenerys. “How are you? Do anything interesting?”

Dany really wanted to give Aegon the cloth she sewn. She knew it would cheer him up, but neither Lemore nor Jon would like that she had made it with the Targaryen colours, so she decided to show it to him in private. The young girl smiled. “We were repairing clothes.” Lemore had taught her to do when she was seven; when Viserys had claimed she was a princess, not a servant. Daenerys didn’t mind.

Griff nodded and turned to Lemore. “May I speak with you in private?” Lemore paused before standing up. He gave Aegon a stern look, one which both Targaryen’s knew meant and they left for the room.

Then they left, Dany couldn’t resist to show Aegon what she had done. “I’ve made this for you,” she said eagerly and presented it to him.

Aegon took it from her and inspected it in the careful way he did. “You made this for me?” She smiled and eagerly nodded. Aegon reassured her with a smile, but it quickly disappeared, with him screwing it up and hiding it. “You’re aware we shouldn’t show our colours,” his voice were not unkind.

_He smiled, he liked it_. “I know . . . but I just had to.” She liked to see him smile, just like how he liked to see her smile. “I wanted to give you something.”

“I’m thankful for it, dearest _sister_.” There was a slight pause before saying the last word. She knew he did see her as one, not an aunt. “It was a beautiful gift. One which I will always treasure.”

Daenerys beamed at his response. “I’m pleased you like it,” she said shyly. “How was it . . . your trip?”

“Fishing down the Rhoyne?” He released a groan and rested his chin in his palm. “As you could expect. Old boat, sailing up and down the river. I didn’t do much, Griff wouldn’t allow me to, saying I may fall in or get hurt in some way.” He rolled his eyes as he did when he was frustrated. “By the mercy of the seven, he’s overprotective.”

“Lemore wouldn’t like you saying that.” She would make them read out all the Seven-Pointed Star as punishment until their throats were sore. As such, they both knew all the book by heart.

“She doesn’t like me saying many things . . . neither does Griff.” Aegon shot a glance where they had went. “We’re to leave this place. Sail down the Rhoyne and go down to Volantis.”

Dany couldn’t resist a smile to leave this place and go somewhere different. They have been to almost every free city except Volantis. She had heard stories of the city, with the Black Walls and the Long Bridge. Whilst Jon Connington didn’t seem to like it, Daenerys always wanted to see the city. She wanted to visit the Black Walls where the Old Blood of Valyria still resided, a city within a city and a very beautiful one, she heard. 

Shortly after, Griff and Septa Lemore returned and repeated what Aegon had already said, with the reason being what it was that they spent too long in Qohne and that the usurpers knives may find them. They left after a quick meal and headed back to the pole boat they regularly travelled in. It wasn’t the best made boat, with decay on its unpainted hull and a single mast with a hastily stitched up sail. But it suited their needs well enough and had enough room for them. Daenerys shared a room with Septa Lemore, whilst Aegon shared a room with Jon Connington and halfmaester Haldon had his own quarters. Then they got on the boat, Jon ordered the owners – who were busy filling the boat with stock which they would use to trade with the places where they stopped – to sail them south.

Daenerys was watching the town get smaller in the distance before they made a turn through one of the tributaries and Qohne soon became hidden from sight by the heavy foliage which grew on either side of the muddy river. While she did like exploring, Dany did regularly find the journeys themselves a bore for the most part. They had little to do besides learn the skills they would need for the future: history, math, the faith, courtly etiquette; or in the case of Aegon, learning to fight. 

As she looked out at the overhanging trees with the long leaves dangling in the water, Dany thought of Viserys. The last she saw of him was when he was sick, laying in his soaked bed while they were at Myr. She remembered it well. His head was resting on a pile of pillows, with sweat beading on his forehead and his fair hair was soaked. Viserys voice had been hoarse and during the end he could barely get words out. The healers claimed it was stomach illness and after many attempts, they ended his pain with Sweetsleep. Daenerys had wept all through the night, the brother who had cared for her when they were kicked out of house with the red door and found by Illyrio’s agents in the streets. When they were found, Viserys ordered she go behind him and he picked up a wooden stick like it was a sword, trying to ward them away. They had laughed at his attempts before others surrounded them. Both Targaryen’s had kicked and screamed, believing they belonged to the usurpers. Viserys broke out of the hold and tried to run to her, but got engulfed by their thick arms. Both Targaryen’s were dragged through the darkened streets and thrown onto a ship, locked inside a dark room. Her brother had pounded and kicked at the door, yelling all the time, saying how they had awoken the dragon; all the while she was curled up in the corner. Only when Viserys stopped, kicking the door a final time, did he go and comfort her, letting Daenerys put her head on his lap and cry until her eyes were swollen and she could cry no more. It was the next morning that the door had opened and the captain – a hairy beast of a man of Pentoshi birth who looked as formidable as any man she seen. Viserys lunged at him like an angry dog, screaming at the top of his lungs. Her brother was restrained by other sailors and pressed to the floor. Then the captain explained what was going on. Both of them did calm down once they realized they didn't belong to the usurpers, but not by much. 

Those memories of being taken and scared in the ship still came to her in her dreams. Many times Dany had woken up in the dead of night and seeked her brother out. He would usually move to the side and let her lay with him, occasionally embracing her and telling her stories of dragons, Dragonstone, the Red Keep and both of them taking back the Seven Kingdoms.

Even though she didn’t fully understand what he was saying, she listened to his honeyed words with eager ears and imagined, all whilst he would always act it like it was only a few small steps away. Now Daenerys didn’t know how many steps there were. Illyrio promised to support them, as did a few other powerful merchant princes, but Griff claimed it would be many years away. _What if the support fades away?_ The exiled princess didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think what would happen if they failed. Daenerys feared of having something happen to anyone who travelled with her . . . if anything happened to Aegon. She had lost one family member in front of her, she couldn’t think to lose another.

Daenerys shook the idea from her head. _We are the blood of the dragon_ , was something Viserys had constantly said. _We will go back and regain our homeland and we will kill the usurper and those who stood beside him. Baratheon, Tully, Stark and Arryn. But also Lannister, who betrayed us_. She couldn’t forget them, she wouldn’t forget them. With fire and blood, the Targaryen’s will get vengeance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters within this piece, they are all the creations of George R.R. Martin.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	5. Aegon II

 

Volantis was much more and less than he had expected. It was bigger than he ever thought, once it was said to be the greatest and most populated of the Free Cities. It certainly looked like that was the case; as they rode through markets, guildhalls and rows upon rows of grandly built houses. They passed through near endless courtyards and public gardens, some having a fountain or two squirting up water from the mouth of an animal or mystical creature of different kinds. At the end of the roads, there usually were monuments: the massive triumphal arches of Old Valyria, decorated with carvings of dragons and their riders in the mist of battle or in victory and taking back the slaves from their conquests; statues of the Triach’s, many of which had no head yet still looked magnificent and imposing, even if cracked and stained; and the massive fighting pits which could house thousands upon thousands of spectators, who watched slaves fight to the death and forget their troubles. The roads were cobblestone and Aegon mused they once looked pleasant, but now they were covered with foliage which grew from the cracks as well as being carpeted by shit from the elephants and the other mounts the Volantene nobility liked so much.

Long before they even entered the city from the long ride down the Rhoyne, Young Griff had to cover his nose. He had never smelled a worse stench. The air was stagnant and the putrid smell just covered the city like a wet blanket, making it near impossible to breathe. “Volantis is an old whore,” Griff muttered as they traversed the Long Bridge. “She may have looked pretty and lively in her prime, but she has grown old and stale and lazy. The looks have gone, as well as the mind.” The bridge was something which amazed Aegon, the massive structure which linked both sides of the mouth of the Rhoyne. Wide enough for people to have built their homes and shops and markets on. Most of the buildings on the bridge were three to four stories high, with them pressing closer together similar to a tunnel until the sky couldn’t be seen.

Griff stopped his pale grey horse and dismounted with the rattling of mail underneath his heavy overcoat. He sniffed in the rank air, his nose screwing in disgust and he muttered some curses under his breath before turning to the lad. “This is where he should be.”

Aegon swallowed and glanced around the narrow streets. It looked like the place where he was told never to go, where criminals would slit his throat to get a few coppers. He was thankful that Dany and the others were in a lodge in a nicer part of Volantis. Griff’s pale eyes told him to be careful and not say anything, something the boy was very much used to. His foster-father had his palm resting against the handle of his sword when he pushed the door open. The rusty hinges shrieked and the wood harshly scraped against the panelled flooring. The inside smelled much worse than out – it was warm and rank with the scent of cheap wine and tasted very sour – enough to make the lad feel like he was going to throw up his bacon and eggs. The prince had decided to keep his straw hat, the shadow only helped too darken his hair and in turn made his eyes almost black. He didn’t want to show his face is a place like this, especially when Haldon had told him stories. When Griff had heard, Aegon felt like his foster-father was going to smash Haldon’s teeth, and just barely refrained from doing so.

“Why did he asked us to meet him in a place like this,” Griff muttered under his breath as his eyes shifted around the room. Besides three freemen drinking and singing whilst drunk near the fire as a slave played a lyre, it was otherwise deserted. “It could have been anywhere else.”

_To meet in any other place would ruin our cover_ , Griff had said the day before. _What would it look like if a sellsword and his son were meeting in lodges which hosted Old Blood?_ Aegon didn’t want to reply when Jon was in one of these moods. To everyone else, they were smallfolk and would need to act like it.

A slave with a jug tattoo underneath her eye rushed forward and spoke in the Volantine dialect. Aegon knew only a few of the words, but was in the process of learning the rest. Jon on the other hand knew it almost fluently. The slave bowed her head and rushed off. “When did you learn Volantene?”

Jon let out a throaty groan. “I learned whilst in the Golden Company. We fought for Volantis who decided it was time to conquer the Disputed Lands.”

“What was that like?”

“Fighting for the Golden Company?”

Young Griff nodded. He had heard of the army and it being the best sellsword company in Essos, founded by Bittersteel and used by the Blackfyre pretenders. He had wondered if they could be used by him to retake Westeros. A part of him doubted it, with himself being a Targaryen and his house were arch-enemies to the Blackfyres. But a part of him wagered they could see sense, especially with Jon Connington having fought alongside them and the chance there were other Targaryen’s loyalists high in their ranks.

Griff sighed. “There wasn’t many places for an exiled lord to go, so I joined with them when they were looking for men. We had fought with the side of Volantis against Lys and Myr. I can remember that battle . . . we were fighting a number of sellsword companies such as the Company of the Rose, Bright Banners as well as the Windblown. They routed as soon as they knew the battle went against them. Discipline is like mother's milk, the saying goes. When it comes to mercenary companies, the Golden Company are the best.”

“So you think they can take Westeros?” Aegons voice was hushed.

Jon shook his head. “Not like this . . . not them alone. They may be the best, but with seven kingdoms against them, they stand no chance. Three times they fought against the Iron Throne in support of the Blackfyres. Three times they were pushed back into the sea with their tail between their legs.”

Aegon knew that taking back his throne won’t be easy. Sellswords could never have the loyalty of knights or men-at-arms, but they were his best choice. He had no land to levy men or any knights to assemble. He had no resources besides the ones Illyrio offered him; whilst his party only involved him, a single knight, his younger aunt, a soiled septa and a man with half a maesters chain. Yet Aegon hoped that the path forward would become clearer as he grew older. “When what will we do?”

Jon shrugged. “Best not talk about it here and it’s too soon to know.” Young Griff nodded and they waited. The slave came back with two wooden bowls of thick stew. Aegon took a small spoonful and watched it slid off, leaving a layer of thick grease behind. He gave it a quick sniff and screwed his face. “ _Eat_.”

“What is in this?” He questioned as he scooped up a spoon fall and let it slide back into the bowl. Aegons face was screwed up. _I doubt even dogs will eat this_.  

“Stew. Believe it or not, people eat this.”

“I know _what_ it is.” He scooped up a chunk of meat. “It’s what _this_ is, I question.”

Griff just shrugged. “It could be anything.” He was eating it like it was nothing, while Aegon only took a few mouthfuls. The door opened, with both of them looking to see if it was him. It certainly looked like it. A brawny man with a shaggy beard and a shock of orange hair. He was wearing a tunic of soiled leather and a large cloak of undyed wool. “This maybe it.”

The man glimpsed around the room and then his eyes got to them, his face lit up. With heavy strides he stood before Aegon and stared down at him, before turning to Jon. “Are you Griff?”

“Aye. So you are Rolly?”

“Aye, Milord.” He glanced at Aegon. “So your the sellsword's son.”

Jon Connington nodded before standing up. “You’ve wasted enough time getting here. We need to head off.”

The sellsword looked surprised. “I just got here.”

“And you were late. Unlike you, I don’t waste time.” Griff tightened his belt and walked out, with his fake son following shortly behind. “The sooner we get back to Rohanne and Lady Lemore, the better.” They climbed back up on their mounts and rode through the narrow maze of streets which made up the Long Bridge.

One the way back to the lodge they were staying, the sellsword called Rolly regaled them both with his life story. He was a son of a smith in Bitterbridge and in service of Lord Caswell. When he was still a boy, he was selected to serve in the castle garrison. His parents were proud of the initial advancement but Rolly quickly lost patience with it, with his lordship more interested in him serving as a blacksmiths apprentice then a true men-at-arms. His resentment only got worse when he saw the lords only son grow from a squire to a knight, with no one allowed to speak about or even touch him, which was shown during practice where the other squires were too scared to touch him. On Rolly’s sixteenth name day, his father made him a sword which Lorent Caswell took for his own and said, “You are unworthy to wield a sword, a knight’s weapon. You are a peasant, only fit to carry a hammer and use that.” Rolly’s response was to simply pick up a hammer and smash both of Lorment’s arms and a few of his ribs before fleeing to Essos, where he joined the Golden Company and served as Ser Harry Strickland’s squire as well as a blacksmith. He even fought in a few battles against the Three Daughters and was said to be a fairly talented warrior, one of the reasons he was sent. 

Rolly laughed when he finished. “Yes, I’m still a squire, not yet a knight. I have yet to earn my spurs.”

“I’m a squire,” Aegon said softly. “I too have yet to be knighted.”

“If you are as good as Strickland claims, you may get that knighthood, but only if you train the boy to be an effective warrior.”

Rolly snorted. “Back in Westeros, I battered all the others and smashed the little lordling. In Essos I fought with shield and sword against sellswords. I can say I’ve only improved since then. I’ll teach your son.”

Aegon knew that Jon wanted a more seasoned warrior to train him, as well as having another opponent. Jon Connington was a skilled knight, but the boy was noticing repetition in the way they fought and Jon always seemed a bit too gentle. _If I’m going to be a great knight, holding yourself back is no way to allow me to improve._

As soon as they left the Long Bridge, the ride became a lot easier and the city became a lot more pleasant. The beggars and children vanished, abandoned houses once again became populated; the roads being full of those dwarf elephants the Volantenes loved so much, each leaving gifts on the road. Many of the grand buildings were topped with great domes of shining metal and coloured glass which glowed in the sun and made the boys eyes sore. He was happy to make it back to the lodge, a three-storied building of wood and coloured sandstone, with stained glass windows and grand domes with spiked tops.

They dismounted their horses at its stables and headed inside, with Rolly muttering who this was nicer than any place he’d ever been. “Don’t get used to it,” Griff muttered. “For this is a onetime occurrence. We need to keep low from now one. As we’ve always done.” Rolly agreed with that, claiming how he did something similar when he was running from his lord in Westeros.

“You’re back,” Daenerys almost called, barely unable to contain herself. She was out of the plain clothes she normally wore and was in something which was more fitting of a daughter of a prosperous trader. Her hair was still blue, even if it was beginning to fade and show the silver underneath. “You took a long time.”

Jon shot a glance at Rolly. “Someone wasn’t where he should have been.”

The sellsword released a chuckle. “I needed to take a shit . . . plus there was so many of them red priests. There was too much of a crowd. Besides, I got lost.”

“Make sure you don’t get lost next time, else you may find yourself floating upside down in the Rhoyne,” Griff threatened. Rolly dismissed the threat and said he didn’t plan to fail them. “May I introduce you to them,” he said with reluctance. “My _wife_ , Lady Lemore. You’ve met one our two children: Griff, the other is Rohanne.” He gestured to Daenerys. “This is Haldon halfmaester. Their tutor.”

“Halfmaester?”

“I studied at the Citadel, but not for long enough to get a chain. So got I stuck with the nickname.”

“How did you get here, halfmaester?”

The tutor rolled his eyes. “The Golden Company needs maesters as much as any other army of mercenaries . . . or brotherhood of exiles, as they prefer to be called. They hired me, then I was put into the service of Griff by our dear friend, the cheesemonger.”

“The cheesemonger,” Rolly chuckled. “That’s one thing to call him. I just called him the golden whale.”

Aegon took some offense at that. Magister Illyrio was a good friend, one who helped both him and Daenerys, as well as Viserys. Aegon doubted House Targaryen could survive without Illyrio and the massive amount of resources he had at his disposal. The prince spoke up. “Magister Illyrio is a close friend to us. I won’t have you insult him. Not after all he’s done for us.”

Griff shook his head. “He may be a friend now. But there is a saying in Pentos where there isn’t a friend in world he wouldn’t sell. It is used both figuratively and literally.” Young Griff grumbled and his fake father turned to Rolly. “We need to head back to the ship. You can teach the boy there. We’ve got weapons and armour in the hold, where you can also sleep.”

“So I have no room to myself?”

Griff frowned and shook his head. “The traders have their own room. Halfmaester has his. Lady Lemore shares hers with Rohanne and I share mine with my son. There is no other room.”

The sellsword sighed. “I’m sure it’s more comfortable then sleeping outside in the rain. Provided the boat doesn’t leak.”

“It doesn’t. That can be assured,” Haldon replied before they all stood up and headed to their boat which was docked in the port. “Our next stop will be the city of Norvos to the north.”

“So back up the Rhoyne,” Aegon muttered. _Joy. Like we haven't done that before._

Halfmaester continued. “We just came down here to both get supplies and a new hand. We need to keep moving. You should know that by now.”

_I know this all too much_. Ever since his aunt and uncle came back, they’d been running. A few days to a few weeks in one town or city before rushing somewhere else. A few times they would head back to Illyrio’s manse, where he would be treated like a royalty. He would be given proper food, and gifts which fitted his rightful station. He could sleep in a proper bed and be able to live comfortable – like a true prince – if only for a short time. He missed those days, he missed those days a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters within this piece, they are all the creations of George R.R. Martin.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	6. Daenerys II

“And behold, for the Father sits in judgment of all men, their women and their children. He is just and fair. None can avert the Father’s justice, for he is righteousness incarnate. All wrong doers are treated with an even hand in accordance to the crimes they commit on this sinful earth, in accordance to the laws of the seven, which are just and above the laws of mortals. For this we thank the father, our Father who cares for us and looks after his flock. As the true shepherd.” Septa closed the Seven-Pointed-Star and looked up at Daenerys. “Will you come and pray with me?”

It wasn’t a question, as much as a request.

Dany bowed her head and they prayed, with the princess relaying the Septa’s words. They started with the Father above, then the Mother above. Then to the Warrior and the Smith, the Maiden and the Crone. All except the Stranger. The Stranger was rarely prayed to, only outcasts associated with it. They prayed for the Father to judge them fairly, the mother to give them mercy; the Smith to give them strength and the Warrior to protect them. Daenerys prayed harder for both of them to lend strength to her nephew. Then they prayed for the Crone to give them guidance, something which Daenerys very much wanted.

They had sailed from the walled town of Valysar and were traversing up the Little Rhoyne towards Pentos where Magister Illyrio was waiting for them. Dany missed Pentos – besides the house with the red door – it was the closest thing to a proper home she had. She didn’t know what to expect there, but Daenerys hoped they would be able to soon go against the usurper. 

After her lessons of the faith were finished, both Septa Lemore and Daenerys left their cramped room and went to the deck where Aegon and Rolly were sparring. The steel was singing as both slashed and parried each other, all whilst Jon was shouting advice to Aegon. Her nephew was getting increasingly skilled with arms but Rolly was a more talented swordsmen: stronger, larger and faster. Aegon was doing reasonably well at standing his ground; that was until he saw Daenerys. With a heavy strike he was thrown to the deck.

Dany rushed to her kinsmen and helped him up. Aegon released a groan and as he looked up at her. “I’m fine,” he said, but a flash of pain flashed on his face for a brief moment. “ _I’m fine_.” Her nephew forced himself up and held onto his side where there was a dent in his chest plate.

_Please be alright_ , Daenerys quickly prayed as Jon quickly pulled at the leather straps and the armour dropped to the floor with a heavy clang before Connington almost tore apart Aegons gambeson from how hard he pulled, trying to examine the wound. The bruise was ugly: all red and Dany could see his pulse.  

“Just a bruise, boy,” Griff said, yet he had some concern in his voice. “You should gain many more when you go back to Westeros.”

Aegon laughed, but it sounded pained. “Then I better get used to it.” He flicked his blue hair back and wiped some sweat from his forehead. In the back of his throat was a light groan.

Rolly laughed and gave him a slap on the back. “Get a few scars to brag about. Something to impress the maidens with.”

Aegon winced slightly at the final bit. Dany remembered what Jon said one day in Lhorulu when Rolly was going to a brothel, “I will not raise you to be the second Aegon the Unworthy. He fucked whores, they gave him bastards which helped ruin the realm for many a generation. Your father broke his vows and then what happened? The usurper decided to take revenge for it and rose his banners in rebellion. _You will not bed whores_.” Aegon heeded those words.

Her nephew when went to change the subject. “When will we get to Ghoyan Drohe?”

Jon shrugged. They already had sailed past Ny Sar. “A few hours if we’re lucky. The magister claimed to be sending a carriage as well as some gifts for you both in the town.”

Dany wondered what those gifts were. Clothes most likely. She looked down at the simple green dress she wore. It was still in reasonable condition besides some basic stitch work and the stains which couldn’t be removed no matter how much she tried. The princess walked to the side of the ship and looked out at the banks. The sides were steep and covered with thick foliage, willow trees bent sideways and their long leaves dangling over the river, many touching the water and sending ripples as they blew in the calm wind. Occasionally she could see fish and turtles swimming beside the pole-boat, their bright colours and appearance never failed to amaze her.

“Like what you see,” Aegon said unexpectedly, almost making her jump. Dany turned around. He had switched out of his thick padding and armour and into a thin linen tunic and atop his head was the straw hat he usually wore on deck. Her nephew grinned and looked down. “I was told that velvet-back turtles are common around here, this is the time they start breeding.” 

She knew enough of the Rhoyne to know the different kinds of species which resided there. Velvet-backs were known for their round head and colourful, smooth shells. She had spotted a few under the cloudy waters. “I know. I’ve seen some.”

He shot her a quick grin. “What about the red-eared? Smoothback? Oh . . . what about an Old Man?”

Dany rolled her eyes. “You know they don’t reside up here.”

Aegon softly laughed. “Right you are dearest aunt.” He removed his hat and used to swipe at a group of gnats, not like it did much. When Daenerys swiped at the swarm in annoyance, her nephew placed the hat atop her head. When she straightened it, he chuckled and said, “Looks good on you.”

Daenerys pouted, but it didn’t take long to smile and her nephew returned the gesture. Aegon was growing to be very handsome and it couldn’t show more when he smiled. But she wasn’t a fan of the blue hair and missed the sight of both their silver. “Do you miss it . . . do you miss Pentos?”

Aegon released a slight humming sound and turned to look into the water, drumming the railing with his fingers. “I miss having a proper bed and not listening to Griff’s snoring. I also miss not having a library full of books I haven’t read over and _over_ again . . . oh, and not the same bland food.”

Dany couldn’t agree more. Biscuits and bacon, they had almost all days. Sometimes bacon and biscuits; sometimes biscuits and bacon. Occasionally they had fish, but that was few and far between and sometimes they had biscuits, bacon _and_ fish. The change in food was enough to make her want to go back to Pentos after months going up and down the Rhoyne. Occasionally they stopped at the various towns, both big and small but they stayed there for only a few days at most before continuing on their journey. Daenerys missed Magister Illyrio, the large man who welcomed her and her brother into his manse, where she met her nephew. The times she went back to the manse, he would always shower them with gifts. She still had one of his gifts which she made sure to always keep safe – a simple silver locket of her mother, Queen Rhaella . . . the mother she killed.

“Rohanne, are you alright?” her nephew asked with concern.

Dany realised her eyes were tearing up and she quickly averted away, before denying it. _A dragon doesn’t cry_. “I’m fine, dearest brother,” she said keeping up with the act, even though the act seemed more true than real life. She forced herself to smile. Dany only knew about her mother from what Jon Connington and Viserys said about her. Viserys said she was a beautiful women, the perfect queen and one who loved father completely. Jon on the other hand gave a different picture: he said how she was mindful of her duty and was protective of her children but didn’t love King Aerys and told her about the abuse Queen Rhaella suffered by her father’s hand. Griff didn’t hide anything from her. Initially she didn’t believe it, she didn’t want to believe it. Only when Dany got older did she began to see the truth in it. That had upset her more than she ever wanted to admit, that her father was anything like the man she heard about. _I will never be like him_ , she promised. _I won’t be a monster, I’ll be loved and respected by all._  

Days passed until they got to the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe. They regularly stopped at the populated ruins of one of the Rhoyne’s great cities to the journey towards Pentos. From what Haldon had told her, it was an impressive sight in its prime. A city of canals, festivals, fountains and mind-blowing beauty. A few times Daenerys tried to envision it in such a way, but she rarely could. It was a city of ruins: the canals choked full of weeds and mud, the pools stagnant, green and swarming with flies and where people took their waste. The once great buildings, temples and palaces were sinking into the soft ground, the damage from Valyrian dragons were still very evident. Yet inhabitants somehow managed to have a life here, tending the small gardens of weeds and small animals. Naked children placed in the mess, their faces soiled but smiling.

They thanked the boats owners, who left eagerly. Their party walked to the outskirts where they found a small group waiting for them. A large wheel house, with a small contingent of Unsullied and horsemen. She, her nephew as well as Septa Lemore went inside, while the rest of their party rode atop horses. It was bigger and nicer when what she remembered the carriage to be. Purple velvet walls curving overhead to form a roof which kept in calm heat which Daenerys found pleasant. It was like they were riding a floating cushion with how smooth the ride was on the old Valyrian roads. Before they had set off, slaves had prepared them food and they ate till their stomachs were full and aching, but there was so much left and they nibbled on the leftovers as they travelled.

For how comfortable it was – with its soft cushions, four beds and all the books Aegon had brought with him – it was dreadfully slow. As could be expected, her nephew was getting restless which normally happened when he stayed in one place for long and especially as they neared their destination. Most of the time he would spend his time reading, sometimes to her about Westeros and landmarks such as Dragonstone, the Wall or the Citadel in Oldtown. Her nephew was a quick reader and with him already having read all, it didn’t take long for it to bore him.

After falling asleep at late noon, Daenerys woke up at sunrise, opening the curtains to peer outside. They were close. The old Valyrian road were as straight as a spear and wide enough for three wagons to pass abreast. On either side were huge fields which stretched far into the distance, each had an army of farmhands tending the crops as guards patrolled, making sure they didn’t escape. This route was the one they usually took and it was familiar to her. _A few more hours and we’ll be in Pentos_ , she told herself.

A few hours, yet it felt like longer. The more she anticipated it, the slower the ride seemed. When both Aegon and Septa Lemore woke up, they broke-their-fast on spiced sausages, sliced ham, boiled eggs and cheese; which they washed down with weak wine. The only time they ate near this good was with Magister Illyrio, but even these meals in the carriage were petite in comparison to what was normally offered in his manse. 

As they had been doing all mornings on the journey, their septa taught them about the faith, the histories of the seven and they finished with a long prayer. Aegon spent the rest of the way fidgeting in his seat whilst reading a book about the Seven Kingdoms, when they were indeed seven kingdoms.

The sun was at its highest when they arrived at the free city of Pentos, its massive high walls and the square brick towers. They entered through the Sunrise gate, with the streets full and chaotic. Even though Septa Lemore discouraged her, Dany looked at the many merchants and minstrels in their dyed hair and bright clothes. Musicians and tumblers were entertaining the sparse crowds which were slowly diminishing. Dany remembered watching a similar act in Volantis a few years past. There was dancing, women were throwing flaming sticks and the men doing backflips. Dany smiled at the thought.

They stopped outside the iron gates of Illyrio’s manse. After a brief conversation, the Unsullied opened the gates and they rolled through, only to stop shortly after and they exited the wheel house. Aegon was the first to get out, springing out as soon as the doors opened for him. Their party were led inside by a slave.

They were told to wait in the pillared gallery which wrapped around the expansive courtyard with its colourful, vibrant flowers and pools; fountains and painted statues. She looked at one which was of a lithe boy, fleshly painted with shoulder length gold hair. Magister Illyrio said how that was him when he was younger, a handsome young Braavo who lived by his sword when Dany formed the courage to ask who the boy was. In no way did she expect the handsome statue to turn into what the merchant prince was now; but she supposed it was possible, even Aegon the Unworthy was handsome in his youth.

The Pentoshi merchant laughed and told her that was when he managed to form a friendship with Varys who had once been the prince of thieves in Myr. When Varys came to Pentos, the two formed a deal: where Varys would rob from the rich and powerful, Illyrio would find and return their processions for a fee, as well as find the _true_ culprits for punishment. When he was younger, Aegon would ask for stories of some of the heists they had done, like it was some grand adventure. Magister Illyrio was always happy to indulge him, telling her nephew stories like Varys taking the jewels of a former magister’s wife, right under her nose in a daring feet of deceit and skill. Those were the earlier heists, the later ones were for paper and information. While Illyrio claimed that was what got them truly rich, it just wasn’t as exciting to listen to.

Daenerys heard the magister’s easy identifiable laugh and they turned to the man who just seemed to have grown bigger. A bright silk robe barely covering his belly and it seemed the Magister had grown another chin. “My friends,” he called out with a hearty laugh. “How was the carriage and the trip? Did they treat you well enough?”

“The horses were well,” Jon said in a grim tone. “Can’t speak about the carriage, magister.”

“It was wonderful,” Dany quickly said. It was only partly true. It was much more comfortable then the boats what they hired, but the ride was more boring in the confined quarters. Many times she had wanted to stretch her legs, but Connington denied her. “I am very much happy to see you again, Magister Illyrio.” _A princess always remembers her courtesies_.

“It is wonderful to hear you say that, little princess,” the merchant prince said with a smile, showing crooked yellow teeth. “I’m sure you’ll want clean attire. My servants will lead you to your chambers and will get whatever you want. Fear not to ask.”

_Slaves more like_. Even though slavery was illegal in the free city of Pentos, many of the rich and powerful used personal _servants_ who were slaves in all but name. A girl, tall and willowy, with blonde hair and blue eyes escorted her to her chambers, whiles a similar slave escorted Aegon to his. Their rooms were opposite each other, not that she minded. Her room was how she had left it: a large bed in the centre atop a shallow dais and with a silk curtain hanging around it; around the room were draws of dark wood from Qohor and a wooden tub.

“May this one provide you with a bath, my lady,” the slave asked, looking down at the floor. Dany accepted it. It was a long ride from Ghoyan Drohe. She missed warm clean water; not the water of the Rhoyne where she feared the snapping turtles and other creatures. The slave filled her baths with hot water and added sweet smelling oils. Daenerys stripped out of her travel stained clothes and into a simple cotton tunic and laid down on the linen covered bathtub. To her disappointment, the water wasn’t as warm as she wished, but it would suffice. Even though she didn’t plan to remain there for long, Daenerys quickly relaxed, the girl brushed her hair and rubbed her skin with a soft rag. She soon found her eyes become heavy and closed them as the girl chatted away.

Daenerys opened her eyes when the slave finished cleaning her before finally stepping out. Her legs felt weak and she was tired. More tired when she’d ever felt before. All she wanted to do was lay atop the featherbed and sleep, but the princess knew their host was yet to shower them with food and pleasantries.

When she was dry, Illyrio’s slave presented her with an ivory dress, decorated with dragons in the form of silver myrish lace which shone beside the candles scattered around the room. When she touched it, the fabric seemed to run through her fingers like water. It was beautiful and when she wore it, Daenerys was presented with jewels to go along with it. A circlet of silver which looked like tangled vines and golden bracelets encrusted with dark amethysts. She felt like a princess when she looked in the mirror, not a daughter of a sellsword. When why did she feel sad?

_Is this what my life would have been if the usurper didn’t win? Fancy clothes and jewels and servants to take care of my every need?_   When the thought past, she no longer felt like one. The life of a sellswords daughter was what she knew best. Travelling around the Free Cities, with Aegon and the rest of them, with Septa Lemore and Jon Connington as her mother and father. They stop in towns and villages, where she would mostly sew and help make money for her false-family when needed.

Yet for all the hospitality and help Illyrio Mopatis offered both her and Aegon, Dany couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted in return. Even with her slightly less-when-sheltered upbringing and at thirteen, she knew that these gifts came with a prize. He was a trader, one who came from less than honourable backgrounds and with a reputation of ruthlessness. He claimed his prize was to be raised to be the Master of Coin and promised any castle in Westeros. For all her suspicions, Daenerys couldn’t afford to be picky with allies – which were few and far between.

Once Dany was prepared, she walked to the feasting hall, with the slave following behind like a shadow. The feast was already on the table, all steaming and unbelievably inviting. When the Illyrio’s servant needlessly announced her arrival, Aegon smirked and stood up. Like her, he had the blue dye removed from his hair, and her nephew was standing proud in high boots of black leather and a black and red doublet with their house sigil on his breast. The others in their party also did a similar courtesy.

“You look beautiful, little princess,” Jon Connington said with a slight smile. He had the blue out of his hair as well – with his hair and beard going back to its mostly red – but age had caused some of it to turn grey. Dany smiled, did a small curtsy and thanked him for the compliment, as a true princess should.

When she sat down, slaves came and put food on their plate. For starters they had crab soup, filled with leeks and herbs. It was thick and had a rich creamy taste. It only took one mouthful for Dany too miss Illyrio’s feasts. Their size was only comparable to how delicious it was. Dany got too distracted by eating that she ignored the various conversations. When everyone finished with the starter, the serving girls removed their plates and brought out more food: lamb, suckling pig crusted in honey, goose liver baked in rich wine; roasted boar alongside honeyed nuts and cheeses and olives, fattened snails and other delicacy’s she couldn’t remember the name of or wasn’t completely unfamiliar with.

“No expense stall be spared for the last two Targaryen’s,” Magister Illyrio proclaimed before tearing a limb from a chicken and sucked the meat off the bone with a sound which filled the room.

“Have you heard any news from Westeros,” Halfmaester asked flatly, he was prodding his food with a knife.   

The magister showed a sly smile. “Jon Arryn has died and Robert Baratheon has proclaimed Eddard Stark as his hand.”

“Traitors got to stick together,” Aegon muttered with strong bitterness. “At least one of their allies are dead. Who’s in charge of the Vale now?”

“A sickly young boy by the name of Robert Arryn, with his lady mother Lysa Arryn serving as the boy’s regent.”

Dany turned to Jon Connington. “You fought against Jon Arryn, didn’t you? The battle of the Bells?”

The exiled lord shook his head. “No. In the battle, I wounded Hoster Tully and I killed Lord Arryn’s heir and cousin, Ser Denys Arryn,” his voice was cold. “But with Eddard Stark as hand . . . I don’t know how well he’ll do in the capital. The Starks are iron, hard and brittle. Lord Stark’s honour will make him unpopular with the court, I’ll say.”

“He’s a traitor,” Daenerys grumbled. “You say he’s honourable, yet he vowed to serve my father faithfully and ended up betraying him.” Jon Connington had told her the story of what her father did, yet what Eddard Stark did was still betrayal. _Doesn’t matter the motivations, he’s still a traitor and will get what a traitor deserves_.

Illyrio quickly changed the conversation. “With this turn of fate, we can begin to make faster progress with weakening the kingdom. Lord Stark is untrusting of the Lannister’s ever since the sack,” he showed a concerned look towards Aegon who looked down at his plate when it was mentioned. “Some minor changes to the status quo can make them dislike each other even more so.” His sly smile only grew.  

“They fight and we sweep in and take what is rightfully ours,” Aegon said as he slid a piece of food around his plate. “Divide and conqueror.”

Illyrio nodded and looked at both Daenerys and Aegon. “When the rightful king and queen return, the lords and smallfolk will flock to your banner.”

_Queen_ , Dany stopped at that word. _Does he mean . . ._ Viserys told her about keeping the bloodlines pure and she did read about the Targaryen tradition of wedding brother and sister. _But Aegons my nephew . . . one which is two years my senior_. She looked at him, who in turn was looking at her, his purple eyes wide.  

Jon almost choked on his wine. “Marriage? Surely it would be better for Aegon and Daenerys to marry others too cement an alliance with powerful houses. Margaery Tyrell is yet unmarried and if our prince creates an alliance with her, it will bring forth eighty thousand swords to our cause. I’m sure there are other houses for Princess Daenerys to marry into.”

Illyrio shook his head. “Surely you haven’t forgotten what was agreed upon, my lord. Remember that they believe that Aegon is dead. Marriage to his aunt will help with his claim. Otherwise they will just believe he’s a pretender—”

“But I’m not,” Aegon shot back, his face flushed.

“None of us are saying you are,” Septa Lemore replied, gently placing her palm on the back of his hand. “But there will be many in Westeros who will be sceptical of you.” Aegon only went redder and he tried to suppress himself.

Illyrio continued. “I will suggest that you both get married, it is something which I recommend.” Daenerys turned to her nephew. She wondered what he thought about it. Aegon was handsome and kind, but he could easily get emotional and had a habit of acting impulsive. Yet he never did anything to hurt her, always treating her well. The merchant prince turned to both and them. “What do you think about it, lad. I implore you that’s in your best interest.”

Aegon put his utensils down and straightened up. “This may be best.” He shot an unsure glance at Connington who was shaking his head. “They won’t fight for me if they don’t believe I’m truly Rhaegars son. If marriage to my aunt helps prove that, then I’m for it.” He turned to Daenerys and showed a slightly nervous smile.

Jon Connington had to disagree. “That may be the case, but it still won’t give you swords. Even if the loyalist’s houses rose up against the Baratheons and Lannister’s, they won’t have the strength to go against all the armies the usurpers have at their disposal.”

“That is why I want to divide and turn them against each other,” Illyrio replied before gulping down his wine. When he lowered his cup, he showed the largest grin Dany had ever seen. “You may also have an army at your disposal as well.”

That caught everyone’s interest. “Army? What army?” Jon demanded, little restraint in his voice.

“Something you may be familiar with, my lord. The Golden Company.”

Aegon was cautious. “The Golden Company? The army founded by Bittersteel and full of Blackfyre supporters. Why would they aid us? We’re Targaryen’s. They are supporters of legitimised bastards.”

“Home, is the answer. That is what's important to the company. Exiles and descendants of exiles form the brotherhood. As such, they will see Westeros as more important than any of the trade wars between the Three Daughters. Remember lad, these are mercenaries who will fight for coin, but they hold onto an idea which is worth more than simple gold.” He glanced at Jon and smiled. “But not just Blackfyre supporters, my boy. Like our dear friend here, many Targaryen supporters who refused to bend the knee to the usurper also found themselves across the Narrow Sea and without many places to go to, many decided to make a living with the company. If he didn’t come here, Ser Connington may have got to Captain-General itself.” Connington nodded his head in agreement. “With the male line of House Blackfyre dead, they will have no black dragon to support. To get what they want, they will need to turn red.”

Daenerys was unsure about this course of action. Viserys told her about the Golden Company and she read it or Aegon read it to her. She knew about Bittersteel and the various Blackfyre rebellions which happened. Three wars they were involved in, but all they lost . . . at least in Westeros. In Essos, the company was seen as the best and most disciplined fighting force and unique among sellswords in that they never went back on a contract. When they were kicked out, her older brother wanted to approach the Golden Company and try to get their swords for his cause. _If Illyrio is telling the truth, we may get the army we need. But at what cost?_  

Halfmaester objected. “That may be all well and good. But too invade, we need more than ten thousand men. In comparison, we’re like a mouse attacking an elephant.”

Magister Illyrio didn’t answer immediately, instead taking his time cutting some honeyed pork. “You’ll need more, that is true. Have you heard of the Lost Legion, Haldon?”

Dany didn’t. She only assumed they were another sellsword company. There were so many in Essos that she could only remember a few. Yet it seemed that Aegon did, “They’re a sellsword company. Founded during the Century of Blood. They claim they are the descendants of Old Valyria.”

“As do Volantenes, Lyseni and anyone else with purple eyes and silver hair. Not as near as renowned as the Golden Company, but are nearly as proficient. I have friends there and with some persuasion, they might be more than willing to help the last two Targaryens. Four to five thousand swords, I believe.”

_For a price_ , Daenerys knew. She didn’t expect for them to talk about sellswords during the meal. “Doesn’t this seem a bit early,” she spoke softly, “and how are we going to pay for this. I doubt they will work for free as a gesture of good will.”

“They won’t, that is true,” the Magister said as he fiddled with the prongs of his beard. “They will go to your service for a mixture of coin and personal favours. But expect their commanders and officers to lust after the richest lands and grandest castles.”

Aegon agreed with that. “As can be expected. If they want Casterly Rock, they can have it. I’m making sure the Lannister’s and Baratheon’s will be destroyed when I get my throne.”

Haldon shook his head. “Can’t you remember your lessons, boy? You don’t destroy entire houses if you want a loyal kingdom. If they surrender, you show them mercy. That was what Aegon the Conqueror did and that’s how Westeros submitted to him. But if they refuse to submit, he turned them to ash. Remember that, Aegon.”

Her nephew looked down at the plate like he was scolded before grudgingly replying, “I’ll remember that.”

Illyrio continued. “It’s too early now. But I plan on the invasion happening in a few years. You should marry soon, have an heir. In the meantime, we’ll sort out the arrangements, form alliances and rally your supporters.” He showed that crocked smile of his. “Sooner or later, the dragon will sit the Iron Throne, as it always was meant to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit that the writing for my earlier chapters did make me cringe at times, but I like to believe that i'm improving, and would continue to do so as the story progresses. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters within this piece, they are all the creations of George R.R. Martin.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	7. Aegon III

“Does this fit, my prince,” asked the tailor as he tightened the fabric.

Aegon inhaled and moved his shoulders, having a feel for the new doublet. “Feels a little tight around the chest.” The prince looked into the polished silver mirror at his reflection. Earlier that morning, servants had washed and cropped his hair. It felt strange, seeing it as silver and not blue. He had regularly woke up to see the hair of Young Griff, not Aegon Targaryen. _It worked, for both of us. Hopefully it’s not for much longer._ He looked back at the memories of it first being applied, which were still clear to him. Both Jon and Lemore had to force him down as they rubbed the foul smelling dye all over his hair, all the while the prince had struggled and resisted, but ultimately failed. After a point, it just became a routine part of his life.

The tailor asked a few more questions and adjusted it so it would be perfect. It had to be perfect, he was going to married on the morrow. In many ways, Aegon didn’t know how to feel about being wedded to his aunt. She was certainly beautiful and will grow to be even more so, she was also kind and rarely shied away from what she believed. But he feared that this path could alienate useful alliances. The prince shook his head. _No, the last two dragons need to stick together. Just like what Magister Illyrio said_. If they didn’t believe him to be the true Aegon and saw him as a simple pretender, the powerful houses wouldn’t even want to have their daughters marry him. _This will be the best path_.

The prince looked in the mirror at his black doublet with the three headed dragon adorned with crimson myrish lace. He wore black breeches and high leather boots polished to a high sheen. On his shoulders he wore a half cape which draped over one shoulder, blood red on the inside and black on the outside. Around his neck he wore a chain of black iron, with three finely cut rubies. All of it a gift from Magister Illyrio.

“You look like a proper prince,” came a gentle voice. Aegon quickly turned around and saw Septa Lemore under the doorway.

“Does a proper prince get nervous?”

“Everyone gets nervous. I would be concerned if you weren’t.” Aegon looked down. “Mind if I ask what it is about? The wedding in general, or it being to Daenerys?”

The boy nodded. _Both_. The tailor took his leave and Aegon removed part of the elaborate clothing, putting it to the side for the morrow. “Is Daenerys nervous?” He was curious because she seemed to take the news fairly well. _Or she could have just hid it well_. He was surprised when he heard Illyrio mention it. Aegon knew about the Targaryen tradition, but he always expected to be put into a marriage alliance with a high-lords daughter.

“She is,” the septa said with a slight smirk. “But remember Aegon, your family has been doing this for generations, marrying close family members. There is nothing to be worried about, at least you two know each other and care for each other. Many marriages don’t have that. Be thankyou you’re not marrying a total stranger.”

“I know,” Aegon sighed. Many times, the prince wondered what would have happened if the civil war didn’t happen, or if the crown loyalists won. Would he have been married to Rhaenys or would he be married with a daughter or another house? Aegon doubted Dany would be considered. He’ll be the prince of Dragonstone, the ancestral home which he’d never been but heard tales of. When he was younger, Jon had regularly told Aegon stories of Dragonstone and his father, with the exiled lord saying how much he was familiar to Rhaegar in various ways. Aegon had once took it as a compliment, but as he got older and heard stories like the tourney of Harrenhal, the prince began to despise his father for what he had done. _Abandoning his children and the women who loved him with all her heart_. Aegon found himself get angry with the thought, his nails digging into the skin of his palm. _Calm down_ , he had to warn himself, knowing the outbursts he was capable of. He breathed in and out slowly, for that seemed to work best.

Septa Lemore showed a slight smile, a mix of both concern and affection. She was the closest thing to a mother that both Aegon and Daenerys had. When he was younger, the septa helped him, cleaned his cuts when he fell and kissed him on the forehead before he fell asleep. “You’ll be fine, Aegon.” She then embraced him. She regularly did that when he was a child, but as he got older it became rarer and always in private if she did. She gave him a light peck on the forehead and pulled her head back, looking into his eyes. “Any girl will be happy to have you.”

That made the boy smile as well as blush slightly. “I don’t need anyone else.” _She’s going to be my queen and she’s the one who will have my heirs. No one else_.

The Septa nodded. “Being committed to your vows is a virtue, remember that.” She laughed softly. “Not that I think it'll be hard with her.” She took his chin and Aegon stared into those dark eyes of hers. “No need to worry, Aegon. Your children will be princes and princesses. All beautiful like the dragon lords of old.” She grinned and gave him a quick pat on the cheek before leaving so he could get changed.

Their wedding was in the pillared courtyard of Illyrio’s manse. Aegon waited by the small altar, feeling his hands – which had quickly became sticky with sweat – shake. Lemore was serving the role of Septon due to Illyrio’s mistrust of the small Sept chapel deeper within Pentos, or the Septon who served there. Septa Lemore reassured him with a quick glance. It worked, if only slightly. Aegon tried to resist fidgeting, yet he continued.

A quick scowl from Haldon in the crowd ended that.

The prince didn’t have to wait long when his betrothed approached. If anything, he just got more nervous. Dany was wrapped tightly in a dress of ivory – the same as what she wore during the first feast when they arrived – with dragons made out of the myrish lace, and atop her head she wore her mother’s crown, as well as bracelets and jewels; on her shoulders were a maidens cloak with the colours of House Targaryen. Aegon swallowed as she walked beside Jon Connington, who was in a doublet split in half with his house colours as well as a heavy cloak.

When she stood beside him, Daenerys showed a slight blush and a shy smile. Her nephew wondered if she was as nervous as he was. Daenerys was beautiful, even with the blue dye. But without it – and showing her silver hair, with her eyes looking purple and not blue – she was the most stunning women he had ever seen. Septa Lemore began with praising the Seven and saying the words of their union, where he took his aunts hands. Aegon didn’t pay attention to most of what was said. His head swimming like it was a dream. With no other family members, Jon was taking the duty of her father, the exiled lord removing the clasp of her maiden cloak and it was removed only to be replaced by an identical cape.

When the septa’s words finished, Daenerys’s face was a deep red. “W-with this kiss I pledge my love, and take you as my lord and husband.”

Aegon replied, “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you as my lady and wife.” _For now and always_. Then he cupped her soft cheek, feeling her warmth and brought his lips to hers. It was his first kiss, and while it was clumsy and dry, it felt good. When he broke away, Dany had her eyes closed and somehow turned a darker shade. Aegon smiled nervously, but he worried whether it was good enough and if she enjoyed it.

Septa Lemore rose her hands and declared, “Here in the sight of gods and men, I solemnly proclaim Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen to be man and wife; one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever and cursed be the one who comes between them.” That was when Dany opened her eyes, her shy little smile got rid of any doubts in his mind.

After the wedding ceremony, servants brought out platters of food and drink for the guests – not that there were many. Besides their party, there were a few men and women in bright silks and others in full armour. Sellswords Aegon guessed. Hairy warriors from Ibben; brightly clothed Bravos and men from the Summer Isles, all tall and with skin as black as ebony. Lyseni, Tyroshi, Myrmen and Pentoshi, he saw and heard their own dialects and even some Volantenes. For all the different people which filled the courtyard, talking to each other and drinking the magister’s wine, one caught his attention more than the others. He wasn’t clad in the bright and flamboyant colours or had dyed hair, but instead clothed in a simple woollen tunic, dark green and with a black bear on its hind legs; the man was tall, old and balding but looked strong. _A knight . . . what’s a knight doing here?_

Aegon didn’t have long to think about it before Magister somehow sneaked up on him. “My prince, how’s the wedding, enjoying it I hope?”

He shot a glance at Dany who was talking to a brightly dressed man with a bright red beard. He planned to keep an eye on that one. “I am indeed, Magister. I am thankful for that you have done this for us. On behalf of House Targaryen, we are in your debt.” Illyrio seemed to like that. “May I ask who some of these people are? I must say that I’m quite unfamiliar with them.”

The cheesemonger accepted that and gave brief information of who each individual was. “See that person there,” he gestured to a green haired man of slender build; dressed in robe of bright green, blue and red, patterned with cloth-of-gold. “That there is the brother of the Archon of Tyrosh. A powerful man with a powerful voice, but one who owes me a few favours, you could say. He will very much like to see you when you have the time. Beside him is captain Cossomo the Golden, a distinguished pirate prince from Lys and with a powerful fleet behind him, another potential ally of considerable power.” The pirate was a grey haired man with a thick beard and he was clad in as much gold as Aegon imagined Casterly Rock had stored in its vaults. Illyrio brought Aegon to look at a row of columns were a man was flirting with one of the serving girls. A sellsword was Aegons first guess. A young man, clad in black plate with a dark purple surcoat and half cloak. His hair was black and his eyes appeared seemed as such. “This one is the captain of the Lost Legion. Valarr, his name is. Westerosi born. He’s here to see if you’re worth fighting for.” Aegon nodded and he was told each of the others, before finally it was the bear. “That is Ser Jorah Mormont.”

“Mormont? He’s a knight . . . from the North?” _The North sided with the usurper, why is he here?_

“No less. Anointed by with the seven oils by the High Septon himself, after the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“What’s he doing here?” The knight’s eyes met his.

Illyrio smiled smugly as he twirled his beard. “The usurper wants his head, as does Lord Eddard Stark. Some minor incident with the knight selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. _Pugh_. A man should have the right to sell chattel. The Westerosi are backwards, in more ways than one.”

“So does he hate them?”

“Very much so. He came recommended by Varys and my friend knows who to use. Faced with exile from his homeland, he should be a loyal servant if you give him what he wants: a pardon and his island back.”

Mormont did look strong, even if old. But that would also mean that the knight had a good deal of knowledge and skill. “I’ll talk to him when I’m done with the others.” Illyrio accepted that and wondered off to converse to some of the guests as Aegon did likewise. A few were easier to talk to than others. Some looked down on him, besides smiles they didn’t look convinced to support him when the time came. None seemed too thrilled only to be offered empty promises, yet it was all Aegon could hope to offer.

After a few, Aegon approached Valarr of the Lost Legion. The sellsword captain was taller than most in the courtyard. “So you’re the dead prince,” he said with mocking tone. “Must say that for a dead boy, you look fairer then I would have thought.” 

_Keep calm_. Yet Aegon felt his face get warmer. The others didn’t say anything about it. Yet he knew they wouldn’t care in the least as long as they got coin. The prince doubted this Valarr cared either. “I’m not dead. The one who died was a boy from Pisswater. I was switched.”

“Just happened to be switched just in time and too die in such a way where the original was unidentifiable.” The captain showed a smirk. The sellsword did have Valyrian heritage, with his eyes dark violet, almost black. He then just shrugged. “Not like I care. You have powerful friends. _Aegon Targaryen_. I’m just a sellsword and I’ll take work where I can find it. You need swords to get a crown. I have the swords which can be yours, but what do I get for my troubles?”

“Gold,” _a standard offer_ , “and titles and castles of your choosing when I take back my throne.”

The captain put a finger to his chin like he was deep in thought. “You will have many enemies. The Crownlands, Westerlands, the Vale, the North, Stormlands and Trident. What makes you think that you’ll win this war?”

_When you put it like that, it makes it sound worse_. Aegon swallowed and looked up at the man. Just doing so made him feel younger and a mere princeling. “I am Princess Elia Martells son. The Dornish will rise up for me. I’ll have friends in the Crownlands and Reach as well.”

“Small houses, weak and scattered. You need Lord Paramount’s to aid you, but Dorne is not enough. You have yet to land with your army and once that happens, you will be crushed by the combined armies of the Seven Kingdoms. Only . . . only around two hundred thousand men you’ll be fighting against. Give or take. I only have five thousand under my command. I may not be a maester, yet I know one greatly exceeds the other.”

“The lords and the smallfolk will rise for their rightful king.” As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the sellsword seem to have a point. For all the talk that Illyrio made, he would still have to fight an army which greatly exceeded his own, with more allies and much more support on the mainland of Westeros. But Aegon didn’t want to look defeated.

The sellsword wiggled his hand slightly. “Perhaps, but will it be enough, lad? Many consider Robert Baratheon their rightful king. He has a claim, his grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen. That claim may not compete with yours or your young aunt, but it is still a claim which his allies will support.” He paused. “But what about your allies, my prince? The ones you claim will rise up when you land. The Tyrells surrendered, the Dornish surrendered and Dragonstone surrendered, with the latter willing to hand your family over to the usurper.”

The words made a chill go down his spine.

The sellsword continued, “Where were they to support Viserys and Daenerys?” Aegon didn’t know what to say. He desperately wanted some wine to moisten his parched mouth and throat. “Remember lad, you could promise all the Lannister gold in the world to someone, but words are like wind. Promises are empty on their own, and life is always more important. Sellswords are paid to fight, not die.” Valarr smiled whilst his eyes didn’t. “Think on that, boy. The cheesemonger tells me you’re a smart kid. Let’s hope so. Come up with solutions to these dilemmas and come back to me. See if you can persuade me then.” The captain then took his leave with the rattling of armour.

_Curse him to the seven hells_. Once again Aegon was getting angry. _The people will rise for their rightful king_. He was sure Jon Connington should tell him how to do it. He trusted his foster father with everything he had. After getting a cup of wine and downing its contents. He turned to see Dany conversing with Magister Illyrio. She turned at him and gave him a warm and reassuring smile, a gesture he returned.

When the sun went down, Illyrio called that it was time for the wedding gifts. Few of the guests had presents to offer. Ser Connington brought him a Lyseni dirk, with an ivory handle and engravings on the blade. With a bow of the head, Aegon politely thanked his foster father for the gift. Septa Lemore gave him a book about the faith as expected, and Halfmaester presented him with a book about dragons with the book titled: ‘ _Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons_ ’. Aegon almost laughed at the title, Haldon scolded him and warned that he expected a summary of what the book contained. Aegon accepted the challenge.

Daenerys meanwhile was given a handmaiden by the name of Doreah, a fair haired and blue eyed Lyseni girl by Illyrio. Haldon, Jon and Lemore had given her books. The books both received would likely be read by the other sooner or later. Other guests gave her silver and gold rings, jewels, dresses, soft furs and cups of Myrish glass which were said to shatter if the drink is poisoned.

Ser Jorah Mormont bowed before presenting the both of them with a small gift, apologising. “I acknowledge is little thing, but it’s all an exile like myself could afford.” He laid out a small stack of books, all thin and grubby. They were the histories of the Seven Kingdoms and a collection of songs. Both thanked him for the gift. When that done, the knight said, “I would like to offer you, Prince Aegon Targaryen, my sword to serve you. I fought against your father in the battle of the Trident, I will admit so, and I served as Lord of Bear Island under service of Lord Stark. But now I offer my loyalty to you. The rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Aegon bowed his head. “Provide me with your sword and your undying loyalty and your past crimes against the crown are forgiven and you will be granted Bear Island to once again be your own.” Ser Jorah accepted. “Now rise, Ser Jorah Mormont.” _Three knights in fifteen years. Within a few thousand years I may have an army with the speed this is going_. 

When no other people were offering, Magister Illyrio bellowed a command and four burly men hurried forward, each carrying a cedar chest richly engraved with various creatures and monsters. “This is the final gift I present to you,” he stated, stroking his golden beard as a crowd formed around the chest to see what was inside. The magister opened it himself, where three eggs were sitting on soft velvet.

Everyone just stared at it, with Aegon losing all thoughts as he gawked. _Dragon eggs. It has to be_.

While he just stared, Daenerys slowed walked forwards, her fingers trailing the rim. She looked up at the magister as if asking permission before holding one up with both hands. They were like jewels with how brightly they were coloured. Each was covered in small scales, with the corners reflecting the light of the torches. After some caution, Aegon followed his aunt’s actions, picking up the black one. It was much heavier than he expected. Three eggs there were, one a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks; another was pale cream and streaked with gold; the last was black with scarlet ripples.

Dany put the cream egg back down before turning to the magister. “Where did you get them?”

The merchant let out a soft chuckle. “The Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, to the Far East. “They are ancient, with the eons turning them to stone. For their age, they still look a beautiful as they did when they were laid.”

Daenerys looked back at the three. “We’ll treasure them always. It is a magnificent gift, one which we’ll both always remember.”

_Three eggs for three Targaryen’s_ , was Aegons thought as he looked back at them. He remembered Viserys, the late uncle who didn’t see him as true and was reluctant to acknowledge his existence. _If you were still here, you could have had one_. “I agree with my dearest wife. They are a wonderful gift. We thank you.”

Illyrio bowed his head. “I am thankful you appreciate it. The dragons may have died out, yet the shells of their offspring still remain, fossilised, yet beautiful and worth a lot of coin. They are yours to do as you wish.”

Aegon wondered what for. Dragons were dead and they wouldn’t be able to hatch. On their own, eggs were more precious than jewels, with three being worth a fortune and enough for an army. _Is that what Illyrio wants? For us to use this as currency for an army?_ In the corner of his eyes he saw Valarr eyeing him with a slight smirk.

The gifts were taken away by the slaves and then everything was prepared for the dance. Tables were put to the side and pairs grouped up. Aegon went to his wife, held his hand out and offered her the first dance. She accepted without hesitation. “Enjoying our wedding,” he asked as the musicians played a slow song called _Dance of the Rhoyne_.

Dany smiled a sweet smile. “It was wonderful. But I will admit that I was unsure about it at the beginning.”

“How come?”

Daenerys shook her head. “I just was . . . I can’t explain it.”

A gentle kiss to the forehead silenced her and she smiled timidly. “I can say I was nervous as well, my princess. Being married to the most beautiful women in the world.” His wife then gently pressed against his chest. Dany had always been smaller then him, but with him beginning to go through a growth spurt, the difference as only getting greater.

They danced the rest in silence. A few times they switched partners, but there was more than twice as many men as women, so even the serving girls were asked for a dance. A few times he and Daenerys found themselves in each other’s arms again. Aegon much preferred that, with him getting a bit jealous when he saw her dance with others. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

When the dancing ended, one merchant prince shouted for the bedding ceremony, his voice in a cruel tone of jest. Dany blushed when that was said, with others – obviously drunk on wine – agreed and called for her to strip in the custom of Westeros before carrying her to her chambers.

With a quick look at her face, it was obvious that his wife didn’t want to be involved and he didn’t want to make something she hated, so Aegon refused the bedding.

A Lyseni pirate lord laughed, spilling wine over his tunic. “I thought you Westerosi all do this bedding ceremony. Follow your forefather’s, boy. Let us strip her down and we’ll carry her in for your pleasure.” A few others started laughing. “We won’t be too rough.”

_I promised to protect her. Her honour included_. “ _No_ ,” Aegon snapped, stepping forward. “There will be no bedding ceremony.” He wanted to say more, but they were potential allies and he was walking a thin line.

Ser Connington stepped forward. “If the prince refuses the ceremony, it's his calling. It is _his_ wedding after all.” Which Illyrio and Septa Lemore supported, though the former was more indifferent. There were a few annoyed grumbles from who wished it was so, but nothing besides. Although the Lyseni pirates eyes didn’t leave the prince.

_I’ve lost him_. Aegon inhaled and felt the warmth creep from his face. He then turned around to an uneasy Daenerys and offered his hand. “Shall me and my dearest wife head to our chambers.” It was like all the happiness got sucked out of her. She took it and they left the others to their jests and drinks. When they left the courtyard and walked through the marble corridors, he asked, “Are you alright, Dany?” His voice was soft and gentle, the same one he usually used when she was upset.

“I-I thank you for that . . . during the dance . . . the way some of them looked at me.” She shuddered. “I don’t want their hands near me.”

He had seen some of the men leer at her, sellswords, captains or merchants. He didn’t want to think of what they would have done if they stripped her. _She’s a Targaryen princess, she deserves better_. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it.” He smiled and planted a light kiss on her forehead once again. “Shall we forget them?” Dany agreed and they walked to their chambers.

Their footsteps getting slower as they neared the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters within this piece, they are all the creations of George R.R. Martin.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	8. Daenerys III

He lay before her. Her nephew, protector and husband.

The crumpled bedsheets clung to his toned body and his arm wrapped tightly around her. Daenerys felt comfortable beside him, enjoying the warmth of the body pressing against hers. Through the windows, the sun was already out. Illyrio’s slaves were under orders not to disturb them, something the princess was thankful for. She just wanted to relax.

In many ways, it didn’t turn out the way she expected. In her mind, Dany thought it was going to be romantic and sweet, like the stories. But instead it was clumsy, messy and awkward, like when their limbs got in the way of each other, or when she had accidently kneed him, and quite a few times they had both burst out laughing. Yet for all its faults, she did enjoy it, even if it didn’t turn out the way she anticipated.

With a gentle hand, Dany ran a finger down his chest, making Aegon shudder slightly in his slumber. She smiled at that. His skin was soft as a maidens, still yet to grow hair, and muscle was just beginning to show on his slender frame from his training. _Beautiful Aegon_. Daenerys brushed some hair out of his eyes before they flicked open with life. Dany squealed as his arms wrapped tightly around her, drawing her close to him.

Aegon's eyes were bright with amusement and on his lips was a cocky smirk. “Morning.” Dany smiled shyly, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. He glanced at the windows, his grip slacking. “Morning already, a shame I must say.” Dany disagreed and pulled him close, savouring the warmth of his flesh as she rested her head on his shoulder; his arms engulfing her in a snug embrace. It felt like eternity before he finally separated from her and stood up. Aegon shot her another one of his smiles and cleaned himself up from their night together. “As much as I would love to stay with you, dearest wife of mine, we still have duties. A shame I know, but things are expected of both of us.” He released a soft chuckle. “I shall always remember our night together, and I’ll have the bruises to remind me.” With that she threw a pillow at him, only making him laugh louder.

Dany covered her petite breasts with the bedsheet. “You’re just as guilty.”

Her prince nodded in agreement as he put on his clothes. “Aye, I am, and for that I’m greatly sorry.” The turned around to show a wicked smirk.

_Always apologising_. Daenerys couldn’t help but smile. He was in _that_ mood today. Only when he dressed and left, did she clean herself up before slipping into soft sandals and dressed herself in a violet dress which brought out the colour of her eyes. After she prepared herself, Daenerys turned to the three eggs which sat neatly in the chest. All three looked beautiful against the light of the sun, like colourful glass. Dany gently ran her fingers over one, feeling the scales which decorated the shell. The stone had a low warmth to it, just noticeable.

She pulled her hand away.

“How,” Dany muttered to herself. She placed the tip of her fingers on them again and could feel the warmth radiating inside. Illyrio said these had turned to stone, but stone was cold, not warm. _That’s strange_. A part of herself told her it wasn’t the case, and with her duties to perform, Daenerys pushed it to the back of her mind and continued with her day. They were just stone, nothing more. They were pretty things to look at, but nothing else.

As always, Daenerys started the day with Septa Lemore and learning about the mysteries of the faith. Reading from the Seven Pointed Star, learning about the histories of the Seven and the land of Andalos, the land just north of Pentos. They ended their session with the migration of the Andals, where they arrived at Westeros and spread the faith to the savage worshippers of the Old Gods, beginning with the Vale and slowly heading west and south. A few times throughout the session, they prayed to the six aspects but mostly to the mother and asking for fertility.

Then that was done, Dany was escorted to the library where she saw Aegon walking out. He gave her a sly smile and a wink. Inside Halfmaester was tapping the table in frustration. “Princess,” he said without looking up. “Ready to learn about the history of the Ninepenny Kings, or the Band of Nine, as they were before Prince Duncan made that insufferable jape.” 

The princess tried to suppress a small giggle from her teacher’s tone. The tone he could only get from Aegon. “What did he do this time?”

“Youth. That and arrogance.” He pointed to the open tome. “Sit down and read that. Maester Eon's Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A good book, full of proper facts. Most of it is about the war, but we’re going to learn about the alliances and the various actors within the Band of Nine.” His eyes tightened. “Daenerys, I trust that you will not ask about the various battles, as your nephew-husband did.”

“I won’t.” Fighting wasn’t her place, she knew.

“Good. First would you like to read it out then?”

Daenerys did. Compared to other books she read, it was simpler compared to the long and overly complex styles of other maesters. She already knew that the Band of Nine were a collection of powerful traders, pirates and mercenary groups which had united under the promise to aid each other gain kingdoms for themselves, mostly in the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones. It was originally founded by Alequo Adarys, a wealthy and ambitious Tyroshi merchant who wanted the Free City of Tyrosh and rule it as its despot. He had made a deal with the Blackfyre pretenders, who were offered both financial and political support in return. Other actors were soon to join them for their own gains. Liomond Lashara of the Spotted Lions, Nine Eyes of the Jolly Fellows, Spotted Tom the butcher, Ser Derrick Fossoway the Bad Apple, and the Summer Islander prince turned sellsword captain Xhobar Qhoqua. They all got under the banner of the nine; alongside pirate fleets under the Old Mother and Samarro Saan.

Daenerys was told how they all met, the alliance they formed and the agreements they all made. With the Disputed Lands and Stepstones initially being split up between them. Instead of going against them, Westeros largely kept to itself, but watching the band and expecting the Free Cities to deal with them until Jaehaerys II ordered a pre-emptive strike on the Blackfyre and his supporters before they could land on the mainland. Dany already knew much about it, but Haldon went into the details of the Three Daughters and their relationship. Tyrosh under their despot was fully devoted to the Blackfyre cause, offering coin, men and ships to the war effort. Lys had wanted to join in early on in the conflict, wanting to take advantage of the chaos for their own gain; whilst Myr remained neutral besides fearing the power of the alliance. Neither of these two got involved, even though there was a pull from the aristocracy to get involved either with or against the band.

She wondered why she was being taught this, unless Haldon believed something similar could happen with her and Aegon. After all, the Band of Nine was considered a threat to the Iron Throne at the time. She smiled and remembered what Haldon had said previously, “ _History repeats itself, so learn how to use it_.” She brought her thoughts up and he said, “It does indeed. The Blackfyres were exiled here in Essos. It would be wise to learn what they did for we are in the same position as them. Learn to succeed where they failed.”

She agreed and remembered back at the wedding. The brother of the Tyroshi Archon did seem sympathetic to their plight, as did a few sellsail captains when she spoke with them. _Perhaps we can recreate the Band of Nine, but with actual dragons at the helm_. But for coin instead of territory.

When she finished her studies, Daenerys Targaryen went to the courtyard to watch her nephew practise. He was duelling beside the lithe statue, with the pudgy Unsullied standing guard looking closer to statues themselves. Aegon was sparring with Ser Duck, both in mail and padded gambesons. Neither wielded a shield and instead were practising on with sword and evading, all whilst Griff was shouting at his ward. They tried various weapons: axes, maces, polearms and different kinds of swords. Connington had always expressed the need for her nephew to learn to use all different weapons at his disposal. Even though her nephew was quick and landed more hits, Ser Duck was stronger and larger and when he hit, it showed. After a close struggle, Rolly struck her husband and Aegon was thrown to the ground.

Jon Connington groaned. “You need to make sure not to push your sword against your opponent. That is not how you grapple them.” He sighed and shook his head. “Expect many knights to break through that guard. Your father was gifted with the sword, you should be too.”

Aegon frowned, his expression looked cold enough to freeze the Rhoyne. But he looked away once he noticed Daenerys standing there. Her nephew wiped the sweat off his face and then turned back to face her, putting on a smile. “Dany,” he called, his voice still full of frustration.

For as much she loved her nephew, he could get emotional, even though he tried to conceal it in her presence. Dany did suspect it likely came down to his Dornish blood. He was half Dornish after all and the Dornish were said to be hot-blooded and promiscuous. Which did make a part of Dany wonder if Aegon would abandon her for another if he grew bored. When the thought had come up, she tried to ignore it but it remained in her mind. “I see you were practising, I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

His expression softened. “No worries.” He tilted his head slightly, a strand of blond hair hung between his eyes. “I trust your lessons were _decent_.”

“You clearly upset our beloved teacher.” While they had once been taught in the same room, as they grew older, they had been split too learn different things, such as Aegon learning to fight and lead men into battle, as was his place in life.

“Halfmaester doesn’t have any sense of humour,” he chuckled. “Like he’s got a stick up his arse.” Ser Duck laughed at that, whilst Jon just shook his head with disapproval.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Aegon, you remember those eggs?”

“The dragon eggs that Magister Illyrio gave us? Yea, I remember those. How could I not. Beautiful things.”

Her voice went softer. “After you left . . . I went over and touched them. They were warm.”

“Warm?” She nodded. “Are you sure you’re not imagining things. They turned to—”

“What’s this about dragon eggs,” Connington questioned in his usual stern manner.

_If anyone’s got a stick up their arse, it’s him_. When she was younger, their exiled lord treated them well, sometimes showing a smile (more towards Aegon then her). But as they got older, he became much more cold and distance, always serious. “The gifts which Illyrio gave . . . they were warm to the touch.” 

“Warm? How can that be? He said that they were turned to stone, and besides, no dragons have appeared since the days of Aegon the Dragonbane. They’re just pretty stones now, nothing else.”

“But I felt them. They were warm, not intensely so, but I felt them.” Ser Duck looked at her with fondness, but he didn’t seem convinced. She knew that Griff wasn’t. Her nephew looked unsure. _I need more proof then my word_ , she realised. “I can show you . . . if it’s not too much trouble.”

“The prince needs to practise. His sword hand has slackened.” Her husband winced at that.

“I’m sure the lad can afford to take a break, milord,” Duckfield quickly said. “He has been training hard. I may have broken a rib or two with his last strike.”

Connington snorted. “Must had addled your brain as well.” But a look at Rhaegar’s son made him relent. “Fine, but be quick about it. You need much more practise if you want to be a proper knight.”

Aegon bowed his head and walked off with Dany. Then they were a fair distance away, he said, “Even if you didn’t mean it, I thank you for getting me away from him.”

“Griff?”

He nodded solemnly. “For as much as I respect and like him. He gets a bit too . . . obsessive when it comes to training.” She heard a heavy groan come from his lips. “He thinks I’m my father, _Rhaegar the Perfect_.” 

“He’s your father.” Aegons view of his father annoyed Daenerys. Rhaegar was her brother and she regularly was told stories of him by Jon. A warrior of impressive skill in both sword and lance, a scholar with a keen intellect, with a love for the harp but also solemn and withdrawn. While Aegon used to look up to him, within recent years he began to dislike Rhaegar, blaming his father for the ruin to their house. “He's your family. You should love him.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t want to talk about it. The training wasn’t that bad, no need to bring _him_ into it. The father I never knew, yet I’m constantly compared too and raised to be like. A dead man’s shadow.”

“Aegon,” she said softly as she stooped outside their chambers. “Remember when you were younger and you wanted to be like him.” _As well as Daeron the Young Dragon and Aegon the Conqueror_. She missed her younger nephew, when he stilled looked up his father; when he played with her, chasing each other around and climbing the trees or swimming in the Rhoyne. Aegon was a talented swimmer.  

Aegon frowned at that. “That was before I realised what he did. People praise Rheagar. They praise him like a hero of legend. An intellect, a wise scholar, an excelled knight, an unparalleled jouster. _No_. He started the civil war by choosing that northern whore and disappearing with her after the tourney. He gave _her_ the crown of roses instead of his own wife . . . humiliating her in front of everyone . . . the whole seven kingdoms. Then he disappeared with _her_. He abandoned the wife who loved him, he abandoned his son and daughter and doomed his entire house. Because of him . . . because of my father we live here like beggars, feeding on scraps and reliant on the hospitality of others, while the usurpers soil our family’s throne. _That is why I hate him_.”

Daenerys was taken aback by that. _He’s your father Aegon_ , she could have said, but she could see the anger in his eyes.

Dany took his hand in hers and his features softened, losing most of his rage. “I’m sorry Dany . . . it’s just . . .” He sighed and turned his head away. “I know I shouldn’t.”

A quick peck on the cheek made what was left of the anger leave him. Whenever he got mad, her making contact was enough to calm him down. Daenerys just hoped he would grow out of it before they back to Westeros. “Come, I’ll show you the eggs.” They both went back to their chambers where he just looked at the three. “They were warm,” she handed him the black one. “Can you feel it?”

Daenerys was quickly disheartened by his reaction. Aegon was lightly bouncing the egg up and down in his hands and letting his hands examine it. “I don’t feel it Dany. It’s cold to me . . . perhaps it’s just on your mind.”

“But I felt it. It was warm, not immensely so . . .  but I felt it.”

Aegon shook his head and put it back down. “I’m sorry, I felt nothing.”

It upset her that Aegon didn’t believe her, or sense it. She could remember the warmth radiating from within the shells. “You really can’t feel anything?” He shook his head. “Perhaps I was . . . overreacting. I may have just made it up.” She didn’t believe that was the case, but she found it strange that her nephew didn’t feel it. She was given a quick kiss in response, making her giggle softly.

When Daenerys slept that night, she had dreamt a strange dream. There was a creature, with long leathery wings and scales as dark as the night, wet and flowing red . . . blood . . . her blood. Bright red its eyes were and when it opened its jaw, jets of flame spewed out, wrapping around her body, both burning hot and strangely comforting. Then her skin began to blacken and crack, before blowing away in the wind like dust. The dragon turned to her, its eyes like bright red pools. Then it roared.

There she threw herself up, her eyes adjusting to the dark room. Dany was panting heavily, her body shaking and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. She heard a mumble beside her and her husband stirred from his heavy slumber. “What’s wrong,” he questioned with voice croaky which as a contrast to his normally soft and melodious tone.

“A bad dream,” she replied after a moment, before hugging herself. There she felt blood between her thighs.

Aegon made a humming sound before wrapping his arms around and pressing her closely to him. She accepted his embrace, clinging closely to him, where she felt him rest his chin on her head. “What was it about?” His voice going back to normal.

“A dragon, black and red . . . flames came out of its mouth and my skin . . . my skin cracked and burnt.” Aegon tightened his arms around her.

“A dragon dream or nightmare?”

“Could it be?” She had read somewhere that Targaryen’s had strange dreams which were said to be able to predict the future, like Daenys Targaryen foreseeing the Doom of Valyria, causing their house to move to Dragonstone. She wondered if it was what Aegon suggested. _It did have dragons in it_. “Perhaps . . . but I’m not sure.” She wondered if it had something to do with the eggs. Dany didn’t sound her thoughts, instead just laid close to him until the sun rose and slaves rushed in to help them clean and prepare.

When Daenerys was dressed in a simple cream dress, she proceeded over and touched the cream egg. Like the others, it was warm, if with slightly greater intensity to what she remembered. _I was right_. They are stone, she remembered Illyrio saying. _Stone, but stone isn’t warm, not on its own_. As she pressed her palm to the green one, it felt hotter. She quickly withdrew her hand.

“Princess,” Doreah asked with a softness to her voice. “What’s the matter?”

Dany turned to the window, there was a chance the sun warmed them up. But not like this, not this much. “Dragons are all dead, aren’t they?” She heard they were. The last under Aegon the third. But the world was large and much was unexplored. There should be dragons elsewhere, in places unknown, like east of the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.

The fair haired handmaiden smiled slightly before leading Dany to a seat and began to comb her hair. “Once, a trader from Qarth told me that dragons come from the moon.”

“The moon?” Dany almost laughed.

“He told me that the moon was an egg, my princess,” she said, her voice almost musical. “For once there were two moons in the night sky. Beautiful they were and they danced among the stars. But when one got too close to the sun, it cracked like an egg and dragons poured out. Thousands of them poured out like a swarm of locusts, drinking the fires of the sun . . . that is why they breathe fire that is. They all have a part of the sun within them.”

_Fire made flesh_. Daenerys smiled. “Is that so. When what will happen if the other moon gets to close, will the same happen?”

“It is foretold. When the other decides to kiss her, the same thing will happen. Dragons will return to the world.”

That gave the princess a thought: the moon, sun, eggs and dragons. That filled her mind when she ate with the others in the feasting hall. While Illyrio presented food from all over the world, Daenerys only ate a simple meal of eggs, bacon and fried bread, with some honeyed wine to wash it down. “Magister,” Daenerys said abruptly. The whale of a man looked up at her, grease covered his lips and crumbs of food trapped in his golden beard. “The eggs that you gave us, are they truly stone?”

Illyrio Mopatis looked perplexed. “They are indeed, little princess. They are ancient, with the age of time turning them to rock. They are pretty jewels, nothing more. They are yours to do with as you wish. They are valuable and enough for an army if needed. Certainly easier to transport then chests of gold.” He glanced at Jon and her nephew. 

“But they were warm.” That earned her a suspicious look from Septa Lemore and Halfmaester. Connington rolled his eyes and Aegon looked down. Illyrio Mopatis meanwhile looked amused. “I touched them yesterday and they were warm to the touch. I did likewise this morning and they seemed to grow hotter.”

“I touched them and they were cold,” Aegon replied as he slid a piece of bacon around the plate. “If that was the case, I would have felt their warmth.”

“It’s true, I felt them. They were warm. I also had that Dragon Dream, of the dragon, with my skin cracking and breaking . . . and blood.”

“What a lovely thing to say when we’re breaking-our-fast,” Ser Duck replied before pushing the plate away.

“Dragons have been long dead,” Jon muttered with dismissal.

“Perhaps not,” Illyrio said with calculated words. Everyone turned to him. “Perhaps they can be awoken.”

“How,” Aegon almost shouted. “How can that be? Is . . . is it possible?”

The magister shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I can’t be the one to say, but there may be a chance to do it, with magic.”

There was a moment of silence before Dany replied, “What kind?” Her voice soft.

“There are various kinds, but one is more potent than the rest.”

The Septa shook her head, Connington went pale. Dany had a clear idea as to why. She heard about Blood magic from various sources. The faith saw it as evil, with only evildoers practising it. It was quite common in Qohor, with them using it for their sorcerers. She didn’t know if she could, the act of killing another with the off-chance that it could resurrect a dragon. But she felt it . . . she felt the warmth to the eggs, all three of them. “But is it possible?” That shocked everyone else.

The magister stroked his beard. “It could be very much so. Your house’s words are _Fire and Blood_. Perhaps that has something to do with it.” He nodded, “Yes, but if we do, we need to prepare.” A smirk grew on his lips.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” Connington said sternly. “You think about using blood magic to wake up stone?”

“Wake up dragons you mean.” The merchant prince tore off the limb of a duck and dipped it in sauce. “If it has even a small chance, we shall take it. I didn’t get all this for being cautious. I took risks and I was rewarded because of it. Just imagine it, my lord of griffins. Both prince Aegon and princess Daenerys resurrecting dragons after all these years and regaining the throne of Westeros.”

That made the lord pause.

Septa Lemore was less than thrilled. “But blood magic is wrong . . . it’s immoral. I won’t support it.”

“My lady,” Connington spoke up. “Dragons, three of them. Too put the Targaryen’s back on the throne.”

“The ends don’t always justify the means,” she spoke up with more strength then Dany expected from her.

“For a dragon, it does. Aegon the Conqueror conquered Westeros with these creatures, if they can hatch, taking Westeros will be easier.” Septa Lemore shook her head and left.

Illyrio Mopatis took out a silk cloth and wiped his hands and face before standing up. “If this is the decided course of action, I will need to prepare. We all need to prepare for this can change the fate of Westeros and the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters within this piece, they are all the creations of George R.R. Martin.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	9. Jon Connington III

The memories were still as fresh in his mind as if it were yesterday. The ringing of those horrid bells, him running from house to house with sword in hand and his men trailing behind. All whilst the townspeople threw rocks from the roofs above, delaying their actions as they chased the usurper from house to house, brothel to sept to brothel again.

As increasing news from outside came, Jon got desperate; breaking down doors and looking in the cellars, dragging people into the street and demanding where Robert was hiding, even sending men into the sewers. But where was he? Between the legs of a whore. Connington felt sick with the thought. _What man hides behind a women?_

Then came the relief force made up of North, Vale and Tully bannermen. They had stormed the walls, using grappling hooks and ladders. With a makeshift battering ram they smashed the gates. Jon remembered the fighting, the shouts, the screams of the dying and those insufferable bells . . . the bronze bells which continued to ring in his ear, reminding him of his failure.

With his own men from Griffins Roast, the king’s hand had fought in the streets, slaying Riverman, Northman and Valeman like they were nothing. Jon had always been a fierce fighter, undisciplined and reckless but always with strength and with enough skill with a blade to give even some of the best in the kingdoms pause. It started in the streets, but when they couldn’t push through each other in the narrows it went above the ground where soldiers fought atop the roofs and threw missiles down on the streets below. When Connington heard that Robert finally appeared, he immediately broke off and rushed towards the sept. In his vain arrogance, the exiled lord believed he could take the usurpers head and present it to the king and be titled as the one who stopped the rebellion in its tracks.

But Robert was a much more formidable opponent then Jon had ever anticipated. The giant in his plate had already killed both his and Rhaegar’s friend, Ser Myles Mooton all before Jon could fight him. The two fought, Jon with a sword and shield painted with the combatant griffins and Robert with his mighty warhammer. Blow and slash was parried and evaded. But in the end, Jon was gravely injured in that fight, only being alive due by his guards who dragged him away and fought Robert to a man. That was when Jon called for a retreat.

_What would have Tywin done if he was acting hand?_ Connington knew the answer. The Lannister would have surrounded the settlement with his army, burnt the entire place down, killing everyone inside regardless whether they were guilty or innocent, child or elderly. If anyone tried to flee, they would likely be shot by the archers waiting outside. That’s if Tywin didn’t send his brutes inside. Then he would patiently wait and offer the rebels pardons. Stark and Tully and Arryn would have accepted those demands and fled back to their homes with their tail between their legs. _Less death, destruction and most of all, the death of my silver prince_. Robert returned with an army and crushed Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Jon felt sick when he received word of that, but by that time he was in Essos, having been banished by the mad king. He sighed. _But if I did remain and went to Rhaegar in the Trident, I would be dead and so would he_.

He glanced at Aegon who was practising with swords with Ser Rolly and Ser Jorah. Duck was competent with a sword and was an adequate teacher for the lad, he was more trustworthy. A different story could be said for the bear. Jon couldn’t trust Jorah Mormont. The former knight of Bear Island had fought in the Trident, under the banner of Eddard Stark alongside Robert Baratheon. Only Aegons words stopped the griffin from killing the man right there and then. Even if Jon told his foster-son of it, Aegon refused to listen claiming that the knight has more to gain under the Targaryen banner. While Rhaegar had been calm and level-headed (when he was not dealing with those prophecies of his). Aegon meanwhile could easily act impulsive – which Jon put down to his Martell blood – and too trusting.

_Rhaegar was too good for her_ , he had decided long ago. Elia Martell was weak. She had been bedridden for half a year with the birth of Rhaenys, with Aegons birth almost killing her. Afterwards the maesters said she couldn’t birth anymore children. Rhaegar was upset with that news. _Him and his idea of birthing two daughters and a son, named after Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. The prince who was promised and the three heads of the dragon_. Jon didn’t believe that prophesy, which Rhaegar was so fervent about. “You don’t understand,” his silver prince had said. “He _is_ the prince to deliver the world from darkness, the comet came on my son’s birth. Beneath a bleeding star, amidst salt and smoke, the prophesy says. Aegon is the promised prince.” _Whatever song Rhaegar thought the boy had, it ended in a different tune_. Jon was certain that was why his prince fled off with Lyanna Stark on horseback at Harrenhal. _The dragon must have three heads_ , and Elia was unable to give him the daughter he wanted.

The tourney of Harrenhal was the grandest tourney the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. The prizes were far greater than any previous tourney and as such, it brought thousands upon thousands of people from around the kingdom. Thousands of knights and hundreds of lords. Over ten days it lasted, with a variety of different games – five for jousting and the others were combat, archery and the like. Jon remembered the great feast which was halfway through the tourney, when Rhaegar had played his harp. It was the kind to make the girls cry, both young and old, maidens and mothers. He remembered what both Lyanna Stark and Cersei Lannister were smitten. The Stark girl was five-and-ten, he remembered, with the Lannister girl a similar age. While Jon was unhorsed by the would-be-traitor, Ser Barristan Selmy; his prince was unbeatable on the tourney, defeating everyone which dared face him. But that was when the excitement ended, when Rhaegar gave Lyanna the blue roses, in front of his king, and wife. Even though Elia didn’t say anything in public, Jon knew how insulted she felt afterwards. A year later the silver prince took the Stark girl, planting the seeds which doomed his house. _I had a chance to cut the weeds before they spread_ , Jon once again said to himself. _I failed_.

The knight sighed and watched the lad stop his fight against Duck and then turn against Ser Jorah. Jon had examined the Mormont’s blade, making sure it was blunt. But the lord of griffins kept his hand on his own sword just in case. Ser Jorah was reluctant to fight Aegon, but the lad had said that the knight had sworn service and that he would need to practise against more than two opponents to be good.

For as much as Jon hated to admit it, it was improving the boy’s skills. Aegon didn’t have his father’s natural talent with a blade, only his father’s love of books. The boy had average sword skills to say the least, and that infuriated Jon more then he liked. Rhaegar was a natural with anything he put his mind to, while the lad was capable of certain things but failed with others. _Aegon was raised to be the perfect prince. Everything he needs has been taught and more. Him and Daenerys_. Yet it still didn’t seem enough.

After ten years of training the boy, things were finally beginning to move forward. As much as he was suspicious of Magister Illyrio and his re-awakening the dragons plan, Connington was more than willing to give it a chance. Lady Lemore was more than vocal in her criticisms however. As much as Jon grew to respect her, she was just instructed to teach them about the mysteries of the faith. He didn’t need to ask her permission for anything.

“Don’t overstretch yourself,” Jon roared. Ser Jorah was wearing plate atop boiled leather and mail, whilst Aegon was clad only in a thick gambeson and a full helm. The knight of Bear Island was a lot more reserved in the way he fought, always letting Aegon tire himself out whilst he stood still and blocked each strike with his shield. The lad blocked the knight’s strike and lunged in, parrying a strike blow.

For a moment, he thought that the prince was going to beat the knight, but Ser Jorah kicked the lad in the knee and pressed a sword to Aegons neck. “You are learning, but not fast enough. Focus on your awareness of your surroundings. Swords isn’t the only thing you should worry about.”

“Not very honourable.”

Jorah shook his head. “Your father fought nobility, your father fought honourably and your father died. All because he wasn't good enough.” Aegon frowned, but accepted the help up. “If you wish to stay alive, best get rid of these childish fantasies. People will want to kill you, they don’t care if they stab you in front or back. You will die regardless.”

For as much as Jon didn’t want to side with the northern knight, he did. “Ser Jorah has a good point. People will want your death, as you should know. Being honourable will make people like you, but it won’t stop people killing you. Honour is not a shield.”

“So what do you want me to do? Be like Tywin Lannister? A killer of children and one who massacres innocent and guilty with equal ruthlessness?”

_Being closer to Tywin would be better. He was the one who ruled the Seven Kingdoms when he was hand. Twenty years of peace and plenty_. Tywin was hated, but feared by all. “Honour won’t get you your home back.” _I will, in every way I can_.

It was early morning when he received the letter as he was breaking his fast. “What’s this,” Jon asked the Halfmaester. He glanced at the scroll whose seal was from Varys.

“From the spider, I haven’t opened it. It's only for you.”

Jon Connington scoffed and snatched it. _It had better be good, and not another warning_. He broke off the seal and read it. Halfway through, his mouth opened. Haldon asked what it was about and Jon explained, “War has come to Westeros. The usurper died to a boar and the boy king has beheaded Eddard Stark. Now the North and Riverlands are in revolt. Not only that, King Roberts brothers as well, Stannis and Renly. Four different factions vying for control.” He showed a rare smirk at that. _Is this what Varys was planning?_

“So we just have to wait for them to bleed each other dry and then we invade at the right opportunity.”

_We lack the strength to beat them combined, even with the Golden Company, other sellsword companies and possibly Dorne_ , which seemed to be keeping out of the conflict. _But if they fight and die, they won’t be strong enough for the return of the dragons_.

All they had to do was wait, and wait they did. Illyrio’s agents had been busy finding out all the knowledge of Old Valyria, as well as dragons and their eggs. Fire and blood, both were needed for the hatching, or so the merchant claimed. One soul for an egg, he had had declared when he laid out the plans, saying that it would be when the bloody star was above them.

They all stood in the courtyard of his manse, a pyre was being set up and three were tied to poles. Two of them were criminals from Lys, with ancient Valyrian blood which was highly visible in their purple eyes and silver hair. The other one was a black haired boy with blue eyes. A criminal from the Seven Kingdoms, Varys had claimed. From the boys strong jaw line, his tall and well-muscled body, Jon knew who it looked like. It was all too obvious who the boy’s father was. Even if he was innocent, he had the blood and was therefore a threat which needed to be removed. _This is for you, my prince_. The three would have been screaming, begging for mercy or shouting curses, but Illyrio had been wise enough to gag their mouths.

Connington stood behind in a suit of mail as slaves soaked linen in oil and placed them atop the pyre, the fluids trickled on the logs and the air was rich in their smell. Soon the air will be less savoury. Ser Jorah was standing beside him. The hairy knight didn’t believe it will work, instead claiming that they should just sell the eggs and use it to buy sellswords. Not that Connington denied the reasoning, but the little princess was persuaded it would work, almost feverishly so. Aegon had become convinced.

“This is madness,” Lady Lemore had declared after she had failed to persuade them to untie the three and stop this venture.

“That maybe so,” Dany replied. “But the line between wisdom and madness is blurred. This could be one of the worst decisions, or the best. I know in my heart that this is needed. I don’t want to kill them. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dream of it. In many ways, I’m likely to regret it. But to regain our throne it will be required.”

Both the princess and her husband were in black and red, with Dany wearing a black myrish dress with red accents. Whilst Rhaegar’s son wore a tunic with the three headed dragon in red on his breast. Both believed this was the correct cause of action. It reminded him about the tragedy of Summerhall. From what his silver prince had taught him, it was the Targaryen’s plans to bring back their dragons. _Let’s hope this doesn’t turn out similarly_. To make sure of it, Jon had ordered slaves to be at the ready with buckets of water and sand.

Slaves carried the great chest which held the three eggs. Cream, black and green they were, bright and looking like polished stones. Jon glanced up at the bleeding star in the sky, burning red. Blood red, glowing and with a tail like a dragon. From what he doubted of Daenerys' idea, he believed her now.  _This is a sign_. The dragon eggs were placed on the pyre atop the oiled sheets.

Everyone was present, some more reluctantly then others. Unsullied stood around it, their backs facing the pyre. Illyrio was smiling, like he could taste victory as he fiddled with the prongs of his beard. Daenerys and Aegon had their hands together; whilst a priest of the red god was chanting, clad in the bright crimson robes they usually wore, with a fiery hand of gold. He was ringing praise to R'hllor and asking the god for the ability to hatch the eggs of stone.

A slave carried a torch and the oil went up in light at once. The hot, blistering flame rushing to climb up the poles and the linen’s blackened before erupting in fire. The heat rushed into Jon’s face, making him step back. But once the shock wore off, it was like a lover’s breath: warm and gentle. It didn’t last for long, with the fire getting hotter and hotter. Duck and Haldon stepped back, the priest chanted louder and louder, Lemore prayed to herself, Illyrio smiled and the two Targaryen’s didn’t move.

The wood of the platform cracked with a horrible sound. The three prisoners screamed and tried to break free of their bonds in vain. Embers spewed upwards, like a swarm of fireflies, all dancing and swirling in the gentle breeze. The fires spewed forth over the three, their screams going harsher, deeper, inhuman. The air soon became thick with the scent of burning flesh.

In the bottom of his eye, the princess took a step forward, like she was going to climb in it. Jon grabbed her by the shoulder. He didn’t see her face, but a part of him feared what she may have inherited her father’s lust for flames. _No, she is sweet. Nothing like her father_. “Princess, remember the tragedy at Summerhall. Targaryen’s are not immune to fire, contradictory to what the stories claim. You will still die as such.” That stopped the girl, which she apologised, her voice barely hearable above the sound of the fire and the screams. 

The flames danced high and fast, swirling like many excited maids at their wedding, clad in rich crimsons, yellows and oranges, as well as some more unexpected colours which looked eerie in the inferno. It did have a strange, scary beauty to it and roared with the power of a dragon. The air became thick with black smoke and the screams died out. There was a crack, the breaking of wood. The priest’s chants got louder and faster, sounding unnatural and foreign. Yet Connington didn’t listen, instead focusing on the flames, he looked at the eggs: black, green and cream, all hissing and cracking. It pained his eyes, yet he couldn’t turn away.

There was a second loud crack. As loud and sharp as thunder. Everyone stepped back, yet the priest continued like it was nothing. There the pyre broke in on itself, the poles collapsing and the stand breaking. The fire only grew stronger, thirty feet it climbed, high above them, swirling and dancing. Restless and angry. There were screams inside, tiny, but hearable.

The flames were quenched by slaves who needed spears pressed against their back to work. The logs were doused, yet something waited for them. All curled up were three small creatures, with long tails, serpentine necks and small leathery wings.

_It can’t be_ , Jon said to himself, his entire body like stone. _It’s not possible_. Both the Targaryen’s walked towards them, Aegon more cautious then his aunt. _It was not possible . . . it shouldn’t. Yet it is_. Aegon scooped up the black one, it let out a loud shriek, before climbing around his neck like a necklace, whilst Daenerys held the other two in her hands. Pale smoke came from the creatures nostrils.

After a hundred and fifty years, dragons have returned to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could see in the comments that a few of you wanted the dragons to hatch. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. Please comment, I very much would like to hear your opinions.


	10. Aegon IV

Their laughter filled the cabin.

Both Targaryens laid atop the bed, their hands feeling each other’s bodies and lips planting soft kisses on each other’s skin. Dany had a content smile on her face as she pressed closer to him, resting her head against his chest. She released a happy sigh.

Aegon blew the hair brushing against his mouth, which only served to make his aunt laugh that sweet laugh of hers. It was music to his ears. The prince wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He loved her warmth, he loved her being close to him and he loved the sharing of each other’s fresh. Their embraces especially, they were comforting and they helped him forget the stress and pressure of the duties expected of him. Dany slowly pried away from her prince; dyed hair hung over her face, making her eyes appear a dark blue. Her skin was blushed a bright red and her chest was heaving. Aegon cupped her cheek, feeling the heat and softness before leaning into kiss her, Daenerys accepted eagerly, their tongues caressing each other. His princess lowered herself, her hand rubbing against his arms whist one of his cupped the small of her back, his fingers tickling her spine.

She giggled and pulled away. When Aegon moaned in protest, Dany smirked, brushing some hair back. That smile slowly straightened when she turned to the side of the room. Taking his chance, Aegon sat himself up and pressing kisses on her chin and neck. His wife gasped, it was among the sweetest sounds that could come from her lips. The prince changed positions, gently laying Dany on the feather bed and started kissing her body, loving the way she squirmed underneath him.

As he leaned back – so he could take the full sight of Daenerys below him – Aegon hit his head on Griff’s bunk above him, cursing under his breath whilst Dany burst out laughing. “Has my little egg hit his head,” she asked, too sweetly between laboured breaths. “Does he need me to treat his little bump?”

 _No, I don’t_. Aegon would normally be annoyed at how she said it, making him sound like a little boy. But he forced himself to smile, letting his wife have her amusement. Not that he could stay irritated with that smile, and it wasn’t the first time he had banged his head in their passion. With a long kiss on her lips, Aegon began going downwards, planting kisses down her naked form, getting slower the further he went. By the time he was at her womanhood, Dany was moaning, urging him on with quiet encouragement.

As he kissed her there, her hands gripped his head with surprising strength, urging him one. “Don’t you dare stop, _nephew_. I am the mother of dragons.” Her voice may have been commanding if it wasn’t said between gasps and moans.

He snorted. “Yea, keep telling yourself that,” was the response just before she pressed his head down. _Real mature_ , Aegon thought, whilst she urged him one, her hands firm in his dyed hair, playing with the strands. With gentle kisses and licks, he probed her depths and after their previous ordeals, easily brought her to climax. Aegon smiled as he rose and looked at her naked form; she was breathing heavily, her small breasts and body covered with a sheen of sweat which glistened near the candles. _The beautiful women in the world_ , he thought, his hand circling the gentle swell of her belly before he leaned in for another kiss.

Dany broke away and threw her head back, letting out some awkward sounding laughs. “Perfect . . . my prince . . . how about I return the favour?” Even after all they had done, she still had a lustful look in those dark eyes of hers.

 _Is she this insatiable?_ Young Griff stepped away and began putting on his smallclothes and breeches even though he felt himself getting hard again. There was a look of hurt on her face. “If only.” _Perhaps when we sit the Iron throne when this is all over_. He turned back to her and smirked. “It was just enough to see my beloved smile.” _Jon will want me back up on deck_ , he could have said instead. As much as he wanted, they couldn’t stay in his quarters all day. Griff was furious for how long they remained below deck together.

His wife pouted before turning to the dragons curled up atop a pile of cushions in the corner. When they had both hatched, both Targaryens had tried to think of names for them, the first dragons born in more than a hundred years. After some discussion, they both decided to name them after the dragons of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. The black dragon was Balerion. The cream was Meraxes and the green was Vhagar. It helped that two had similar colours to the original ones. Each of the hatchlings were the size of a cat, but they would grow older and all that both Targaryens would have to do was wait for them to get big enough to ride. In the meantime they had to learn all they could about dragons and form as many alliances with possible.

“Beautiful, aren’t they,” Dany said softly, having sat up, the covers wrapped around her chest.

“They are.” Their bodies were covered with colourful scales which easily reflected the sun, though the more they shed the less it became. The dragons were especially beautiful when they were flying alongside the ship, chasing each other in the open. Balerion was the largest and boldest, often scouting ahead in front while his brothers didn’t stray far. That made Aegon cautious, in case he got hurt or was attacked by another ship. Yet Dany didn’t seem to mind. “Just imagine when they get larger.”

His aunt snickered and went over to her chest of clothes. “The more they eat, the larger they get. The larger they get, the more they eat. Already they consume everything which is smaller than a cat.”

 _And the sailors are happier for it_. The captain of the great cog had been cautious about having three dragons, but that ended once it became known that they were eating the rats, even if the he was angry about them eating the ship’s cat. However, the sailors soon took pride in their dragons once they flew beside the ship. Who could blame them? “Let’s just hope that we can continue to feed them.” It was fine them eating the rats and the occasional feline, but soon that won’t be enough. It will then be dogs, goats and then cows.

Dany smiled as she dressed herself in a simple garb of undyed wool. “You worry too much, just relax Aegon. You know I hate it when you worry.”

 _I have to worry. I’m the oldest of this family and your husband. It’s my duty to protect you and our House_. Young Griff dressed himself in the garb which could be expected of a son of a sellsword. A studded tunic, soiled by travel and sweat. On the deck and outside the manse in Pentos, he was Young Griff, son of a sellsword. Even through the ship was in Illyrio’s employ and they knew who he was or they at least knew about Daenerys, both of them were both told to put on the façade. It annoyed Aegon when they left Pentos. Even though he was used to it, he disliked the blue hair; however a part of him did enjoy acting, where he could make up any story he wanted. But now he doubted the tale a sellswords son and daughter was going to be convincing people anymore.

When he was dressed, with a sword and a dirk on his belt, Young Griff walked to the deck where there was a disturbing lack of wind. Without oars on the cog, the vessel was at the complete mercy to the elements. It had been like that for a few days now. They had passed the Stepstones and the fair city of Lys on their way to Volantis where they would dock and head east to where the Lost Legion was encamped. _I’ll show Valarr. He will fight for me when we show him the dragons_. From what Aegon heard, the company were based off one of the ancient Valyrian legions and were proud of their heritage. Three dragons should be enough to convince them. 

His ears were filled with the smashing of blunt swords as Rolly and Jorah practised. Each seemed roughly equal to his eyes. Both knights clad in mail and padded jacks, with dented great helms and kite shields. Both circled each other, with a few sailors watching and shouting wagers. Both knights were cautious, something which surprised Aegon. Duck usually aimed for a quick victory with his superior strength and size. _I guess that won’t work on one who’s a similar height and build_. 

With light footsteps, Dany appeared on deck alongside her pretty handmaiden. The three dragons quickly took flight with loud cries. They loved flying alongside the ship, chasing each other in the clear blue sky, with Balerion going higher than the others. Daenerys inhaled, her pale blue hair braided for their journey across the seas. “Have I told you how much I love the sea. The sound, the smell and the vastness. It just looks so flat. You can see so far.”

“You’ve told me before,” Young Griff replied. He did like the ocean, but the experience had lost most of the enjoyment. He was growing restless, not liking too stay a place for long. The lack of wind and progress just served to make him evermore agitated. “A few times.”

She playfully slapped him on the shoulder, which caused Aegon to chuckle. “Fine then,” she looked out at the ocean, seeing if there were any dolphins which occasionally swam beside the ship. Aegon and Daenerys, even sometimes Septa Lemore would watch them and count after their lessons. “When they get older, we won’t need a ship to sail. We can instead fly, be above the world, just like the dragonlords of old.”

The prince liked the sound of that. The thought of flying high into the clouds and looking down at everything like ants. _Fly from one end of my kingdom to another_. In a few years they will be old enough to ride, but until then they had to use more conventional ways. Vhagar and Meraxes flew over to them, perched on the rail, staring as they cocked their heads. “I think they wish to be fed.”

Dany beamed, as he knew she would. Since they learned that hatchlings needed to eat meat which had been prepared like that of a human, she always kept some charred meat on her person. Daenerys saw herself as their mother after all and a mother needed to look after her children. She fed them from her hand and Aegon wondered how long it would take for them to breathe fire. After they ate, Meraxes took flight, only to land on her shoulders and curl around her neck. Dany giggled. “They feel so warm.”

“Fire made flesh, the saying goes.” _Let’s hope they grow stronger soon. They will need protecting before they can protect us._

“It certainly feels like it,” she said and rubbed the creatures snout. It hissed and pale smoke came from its nostrils. “I do sometimes wonder what it will be like. You riding Balerion like Aegon reborn. Me riding alongside you as we retake your home. To feel the wind against our faces, look down on our domain. It will be wonderful.”

“History repeats itself. Just with one wife instead of two. Unless . . .” Aegon pressed a finger to his chin and made himself look thoughtful. “But who will be the second,” he said light-heartedly. “A wrench from the north, or a maiden from the Reach . . . or even a—”

She lightly slapped him on the shoulder once again and the dragon stirred and hissed. It quickly took flight, almost hitting her with its wings. “You won’t dare, nephew.”

“You're right, I won’t.” He leaned on the side, missing the wind. “But when we do learn to ride . . . would you be participating in the battles?” Aegon didn’t like the thought of her being in danger. But dragons were weapons and even the first Aegon had his sisters fighting alongside him. But they were trained warriors in their own right, while Daenerys could only use a knife in self-defence.

“Not like you, I won’t,” her tone getting serious. “I . . . I never thought about participating in the battles. They were always for you and Griff and Duck. I was to wait in Pentos for the war to be over before I come. In the meantime looking after our heir. The whole dragons hatching has just changed that. We need riders and I’m too be one. That means I’ll have to fight as well . . . I’m sure.” But she didn’t sound sure. “Like Queen Rhaenys or Visenya.” 

“Which one will you be?” It was said that Visenya was married for duty while Rhaenys was married for love. It was considered strange for the conqueror to marry two wives, but it was an accepted practise accepted before their conversion to the seven.

Daenerys hummed and looked at the waves smashing against the hull. “Rhaenys. It is said she loved poetry and songs, as do I.”

“Then I’ll need to find myself a Visenya.” She gave him a look and he laughed. “Or not.”

“Griff,” Rolly shouted at the prince. “Over here. You need to train.” Ser Jorah was leaning on the side and looked the most exhausted while Duck was heaving from the ordeal. Aegon didn’t know who won their bout.

Aegon stood back up. “That will be sweet.” He turned to Dany and smiled. She blushed slightly and that made him want to kiss her. Those lips were made to be kissed. “May I ask for your blessing?”

Before she could answer, it was Griff who shouted at him, demanding he come and practice. Aegon rolled his eyes. Jon didn’t like him spending too much time with his wife. “I will not allow you to act the boy,” he said. “You’re young and I won’t have it distract or blind you from your duty.” Aegon scoffed when he said that. He doubted Jon had ever loved anything.

After some sparring with the three knights, Aegon felt a strong breeze go against his bare neck. It was a simple thing, but it gave him some relief. Pretty soon, the giant canvas ripped as the winds became stronger and the crew rushed to get everything in position. “It seems the gods want us there.” _After all, they support the true king_ , he had heard a book say.

“Be cautious, my son,” said Griff, his hair a dark blue besides the roots. “The wind is a dangerous mistress. She can send us to Volantis, but also she could send us into the maws of the sea.”

 _The gods do play cruel jests_. Aegon nodded. “I’ll remember.” As he took a break from his sparring, the prince went over to the former lord of Bear Island. The prince was sure he would be of great use when they come to retaking the north. “I must say that you fought well, my lord.”

“I’m no lord. Not anymore. I am just a knight turned sellsword.”

Aegon nodded and looked out at the ocean where he could see a carrack. “May I ask how you became a sellsword . . . I understand you were exiled for slavery. But why? I thought slavery was illegal, why do it?”

“I will say that I’m uncomfortable with talking about it, my prince,” his voice was soft but had a roughness to it. Aegon accepted and switched to what it was like being a sellsword. Jorah answered, “When I was exiled, I headed to Lys. My money dried up quickly so I had make a life as a sellsword, the only way an exiled knight like myself can make a living in Essos. Sometimes I served as a caravan guard, sometimes as a bounty hunter and other times as a member of a sellsword company. I fought Braavosi on the Rhoyne, fought for Myr against Tyrosh before switching sides to the other. I’ve even seen the Dothraki and learned their customs.”

“Dothraki,” Aegon snorted. “Are they as formidable as people claim or are they annoying locusts?” They were said to be a threat to the surrounding countryside, but nothing to a city on the coast which could easily resupply by boat.

Ser Jorah didn’t answer immediately. “I went to Vaes Dothrak as a guard to one of the merchants, in that time I learned much. They travel fast and are excellent riders, being able to attack before any proper defence is mobilised. But for those within walled cities, they can be considered akin to a swarm of locusts, attacking the countryside. They lack the skills required for siege craft. They can’t build ladders, unless you can find a way to make their horses climb them. They don’t build towers or rams. They will wait outside until the cities starve. That is how the kingdom of Sarnor got destroyed.”  

“Do you think they’ll work well against Westeros?” _They’ll have to go across the sea first and that will never happen_.

Jorah shook his head. “They can outmanoeuvre the armies of Westeros, but won’t beat them in hand to hand, although they can win if they keep their distance and fire their arrows. There is too much of a technological different. Castles will be impenetrable to the Dothraki outside of besieging, but even then, the local lords could just burn the surrounding fields so the Dothraki have no fodder to feed their mounts.”

Aegon nodded. _At least I’ll be having a professional army, provided those two join me_. “Bear Island, do you miss it, ser?”

“I do miss it, my prince,” his voice was full of longing. “The south had its charms to be sure, but the north was my home. Wild and untamed. Massive trees of sentinel, oak and pine. Not like the south which is full of villages which are a day or so apart. The north is not like that; ancient forests untouched by the hands of man, moorland which stretched far into the distance. Then there was my home, besides a few in the forests, most of my people resided by the coast where fish is plentiful. Not a rich land, but we made do with what we had. A tough and hardy people, you have to be with the Ironborn threatening raids.”

Aegon nodded. “You will get your island back and you will be rewarded for the service you’ve done for the Targaryen cause.” Ser Jorah didn’t reply and continued to stare out.

To his relief, the wind was strong and lasted for the greater part of the day. Yet the relief was to be short lived as the winds died out again for three days before they made speed once again. Days passed before the First Daughter appeared before them, with a bay which could fit all the isles of Braavos in, or that was what the inhabitants so proudly proclaimed. It was early morning when they arrived at the city and they didn’t stay long, only enough to find a boat to take them up the Rhoyne and the first tributary called the Voleana.

“Remember when we were here last,” Young Griff asked as he turned to Daenerys. Both were leaning on the side of the poleboat as it went up the slow stream.

His wife had a straw hat on, a similar kind he wore when they sailed up and down the Rhoyne. She waved the bugs which swarmed around them. “Sometimes I missed it. But now I wonder why.”

Aegon chuckled. “Hopefully soon we’ll have a proper home.” _Our rightful home for our family._ He remembered a dream when he was younger. The prince had wanted to abandon his birthright and duty, instead making a home in Essos. A simple house by the Rhoyne. Sometimes he had Daenerys as a wife, but not always. _Half of that dream came true_. The other half was a daft and childish fantasy. He was a prince, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. He had a duty to avenge his family and return them to their rightful home. Whatever the cost.

After a few days going up the river, the poleboat stopped at a small fishing village. More of a collection of wooden buildings built around toppled stone walls overgrown with foliage. His first guess was that this once was a Rhoynish city which had fallen and never recovered. _A shame, really_ , he thought. It was said that the Rhoynar cities before the rise of the Freehold were quite beautiful. Now the only ones who seem to enjoy them were the flies, turtles and the occasional restless spirit.

“Keep your identity hidden, the both of you,” Connington warned before they stepped off the boat. From what Young Griff knew, the camp was almost half a day away by foot and he wasn’t sure if there were any horses near. The sellsword company was to the south, with the river going east towards a swamp. “The commanders of the legion may know who you are, but the common soldiery wont. They are sellswords, don’t think they won’t take your head if it suits them.” He turned to Dany. “Haldon reports that the Iron Throne wants your head especially, princess.” Her face paled, as if all the colour just got drained. Griff turned to Rolly and Jorah. “You two find any mounts which can be used. I resent the idea of carrying all this coin by hand.” Ser Duckfield left the ship with the knight of Bear Island following closely behind.

Aegon wiped a swarm away. “What if there isn’t any mounts?” _We can’t sail down where there is no river_. Like his aunt, the prince was dressed in finer attire. His hair was neatened, his clothes were fresh. He still was dressed as a sellsword, but it would make a better presentation to the commanders then being dressed in soiled linen and wool.

“You walk,” Septa Lemore answered. She was out of her Septa robes and into the clothes of a common women. “An army awaits you. You shouldn’t turn back just because you can’t stand a little walking.”

Dany was coming with them much to the disagreement of Jon. It was his idea for her to remain on the boat, alongside the women of their party and Halfmaester. But Daenerys had wanted to come, saying she should get to know their army as much as Aegon. She got her wish when it was pointed out that Meraxes and Vhagar only followed her. Jon relented even though he was still resilient to the idea.

“An army of sellswords,” she spoke up. “They fight for coin. That is it.”

Aegon had to agree. Their entire army for invading Westeros was an army of mercenaries who fought for gold. He was also cautious about her choosing to go as well as having all the dragons together. They were still hatchlings, a simple knife could kill them and they had just began to breathe fire. Their protection was reliant on the hospitality of people who fought for profit.

When the prince brought his thoughts up, Griff acknowledged it. “You both have good cause to be wary. But Magister Illyrio is paying for their co-operation. With the coin we’ve brought and the dragons, you can persuade the commanders of the Legion. But remain cautious, don’t let mistrust cloud your proper judgment and neither should you believe what they say as fact. Stay a middle course. If the men provide you with good service, reward them properly. If not, punish them and put someone better in their place.”

The two knights returned with a horse each. Neither looked healthy or strong. One was small and a bit too young, whilst the other was slightly gaunt. Ser Jorah explained that they had to persuade the owners to let them use them. Aegon doubted it was a willing persuasion but they needed the horses. Dany mounted the smaller one due to her petite stature, with the three dragons being kept in a wooden cage. Aegon mounted the larger horse alongside the sellswords coin which bounced as they rode down the dirt track flanked by large willows. Rolly, Connington and Jorah followed behind on foot.

The Lost Legion were encamped near a shallow river. The camp itself looked fairly fortified, surrounded by barricades and a ditch full of sharpened stakes . Latrines were present further down the river and horses were grazing on a nearby pasture. _So this may be my army_ , Aegon thought as he stared at it. It looked well disciplined, enough for Connington to comment about it under his breath. It didn’t take long for the sentries to spot them, approaching with spears and crossbows as one rushed back into camp.

“We head forward,” Connington barked. Aegon and Dany exchanged uneasy glances before following on their tired mares. The knights kept their hands near their weapons as they got to the entrance.

The guard inspected them. He was a tall man, clad in lamellar armour atop riveted mail, above that he wore a surcoat with the dark purple and black of the legion. His face was covered with a barbute helm with a Y shaped slit. “So you are them,” he said, his voice thick with the Volantene accent. “It seems that commander Valarr is expecting both of you Tyroshi. But we request that you hand over your weapons.” As could be expected, none of the knights liked that and Connington refused. “No entrance until you hand your weapons over to us. You’ll get them back afterwards.” Other sellswords were slowly forming a crescent around them, some had weapons and looked ready to engage, while others had neither weapons nor armour, but they all seemed more interested in the hatchlings.

“Do as he says,” Aegon commanded before dismounting. Griff shot him a face which told him to reconsider. “I _said_ hand over your weapons.” He turned to the guard. “Can you guarantee us safe conduct?”

The Volantene nodded. “As you say, Tyroshi.” When the weapons were handed over, the guards stood to the side and let them pass.

The commanders tent was in the centre, surrounded by long banners of black, with a dark purple laurel and the words _Lost Legion_ underneath in High Valyrian. Waiting at the front of the tent was a familiar smug face. Valarr was in full armour and surrounded by both guards and what must had been other commanders. “Finally, you’ve arrived. Blue hair, may I say that I never expected that,” he chuckled. The dragons shrieked again, hating the confines of their cage. The high pitched sound caused almost the whole camp to meet them. “Are these . . .”

“Dragons,” Ser Jorah replied, his hands hovering over an invisible sword as his eyes uneasily looked at those surrounding them. “They are indeed.”

“I thought . . . I thought they were dead.” The sellsword captain sounded shocked and confused. An expression Aegon didn’t think the cocksure man at the wedding was capable of.

“You are mistaken. We’re Targaryens,” Aegon replied. “The blood of the dragonlords of Old Valyria.” _Impressed now?_

The commanders chuckled, that cocky look returning in no time. “I can say that my doubts exist no longer, my prince.” He let out a soft laugh as did a few of the others. “Have I told you that I myself have some Targaryen blood within me as well. My father was a bastard of a Targaryen of Dragonstone. Dragonseed, you may call me,” he smirked and stepped to the side. “I can see you’ve brought your dear wife. I’m sure that it would be easier for us to talk inside. Please come in and bring those creatures with you. I would like a proper look at them. Not many people see dragons these days. They’re a rare treat.” The captain turned to the side. “Groleo, Ternesio, you two take the chest. The rest of you, back to your duties. Nothing to see here.”

Both Targaryens entered first and sat atop the plush cushions which littered the carpet. The knights stood behind them whilst the legion's leadership went the opposite side. A lyseni slave girl offered them food and wine. Whilst Rolly accepted it willingly, Ser Jorah and Connington were cautious, checking to see if it was poisoned and refused it to their wards until proven.

The sellsword commanders laughed. “You check for poison, Westerosi,” mocked a man with dark grey hair with strands of black. “Why would we want to kill our employers? That’s just bad business sense.”

 _Employer?_   Whilst Valarr declined the offer and told them to come back, he didn’t outright refuse.  “So you’ll accept the contract?” Aegon asked in the common tongue.

One of the commanders huffed. He was a large man, with warped shoulders, thin grey hair and a nose which looked to have been repeatedly broken. “We speak High Valyrian here, Targaryens. You may have dismissed your mothers tongue, but not us.”

Valarr rose his hand to quiet him. He put on a smile. “Apologises for Roggo, my dragons. He’s the master of archers. Not the master of words, he’s not as well-spoken as he could be.” He gave the man a harsh look. “We of the Lost Legion are united by the ancient blood, as such we take great pride in it.” After the comely girl filled his cup, he said, “You claim to be Aegon Targaryen, I will admit that I didn’t believe it until I saw those dragons.” He shot a look at Dany. “But that doesn’t matter though. I’m a seller of swords and gold is what we all want out of this transaction. You could be an imposter for all I know, and I don’t care.”

Aegon frowned whilst Jon was fuming. “As I said, I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. His true son. I’m no imposter.” Both Daenerys and Jon Connington added their voice to his.

The sellswords didn’t seem to care. “I apologise, my prince and princess. I believed I said _I thought_ , not _I think_.” He turned to Dany, putting on a smile which made Aegon want to punch him. “May I ask if you wish for anything? I will admit that it’s wrong for me to forget my manners in front of a princess. We don’t have many come here.”

“No thank you, ser.”

“I’m no ser,” he smiled, swirling the wine in his cup before standing up and proceeding to where the dragons were. They shrieked as he approached and were biting at the wood of their cage. “Beautiful creatures, but small. You have dragons yes, but they need to be larger.”

“Much larger,” a young commander said. He was comely, with a melodious voice and hair a maiden would be proud of. He looked very much out of place besides those who actually looked like they’ve been fighting. “They’re worthless like this now.”

Dany was fuming at that comment and looked like she was about to stand up, but Ser Jorah put his hand on her shoulder. “That is true, Iranyris,” Valarr agreed. “But only for now. They will grow larger and they’ll soon be a threat. I’ve accepted the cheesemongers coin and will fight for you, my dragons. But until your pets get bigger, much bigger, we need more men. We’ll need a larger army to invade the seven.”

Connington quickly answered. “We just have to wait, they will get larger in time and then that happens, we can invade.”

The Lost Legion commanders exchanged uneasy looks. Valarr stared at the exiled lord with those dark eyes while others mumbled amongst themselves. “That could take a while. Me and my subordinates won’t like it if I throw away contracts just to wait for you. Gold will be wasted. What other men do you plan on hiring?”

“The Golden Company.”

“Interesting, interesting. Ten thousand men, with horse and elephants. Formidable army that is. While I will admit that I’m no fan of the golden boys of Bittersteel, I could say it may be enough. Thanks to my predecessor and Vogarro here, the legion is following the company’s footsteps. Isn’t that right?”

The man nodded. He was a large man, with brown hair with a streak of gold running through it. “Aye. Five thousand men under our banner. Five hundred horse and five hundred archers. I’ve personally been drilling the men with the best of Essosi military traditions. They'll be able to take on the finest Westeros has to offer.”

Valarr smirked. “You may have professional armies working for you, but you need more. Dorne will support you that is certain. As will some lords, both big and small.” He turned to his officers. “Organise the legion. We’re heading off to the Disputed Lands. Make sure they are ready for a proper invasion.” They bowed their heads and left, making the tent feel suddenly empty. Valarr turned back and smiled. “What do you say?”

Jon Connington nodded. “I will admit I know little of the legion. Are you as good as you claim?”

The sellsword nodded before taking a sip of his drink. “The Lost Legion has fluctuated in strength throughout history, that is true. Sometimes only a few hundred at its worst points. But your doubts are misplaced, my lord.” He stood from the giant cushion. “If you to consider it, I do have a way which we can boast the numbers of your army.”

“How,” Dany asked as the dragons calls got louder. They obviously hated the cage. Aegon could understand if he was confined and wanted to fly.

The legionary commander turned back to the dragons. “I’m speaking of the finest foot soldiers in the world. Unsullied.”

That made Aegon pause as he was about to take a sip. _Unsullied?_ He read somewhere how formidable they were and Magister Illyrio used them as guards. They were created in the barbaric cities of Slavers Bay. The cities of Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor were dire compared to even Volantis and Tyrosh.

“The slaves in spiked hats?” Daenerys asked confused. “Why them?”

Valarr looked at the cautious faces of Ser Duck and Connington. “I’ve accepted your offer and will fight alongside you when the time comes. You will be fighting against a continent. Westeros is in civil war, that is true. But it’ll still be formidable. Especially seeing as your dragons are still hatchlings. I’m speaking of the best soldiers in the world.”

“ _Slave soldiers_ ,” Aegon said slowly, emphasising each word. “We sail for Westeros, where slavery is viewed as malevolent.” _How will they view if we come with slaves fighting for us?_ He didn’t like the idea. But even if they were to buy them, they didn’t have the coin.

“Possibly so,” the commander shrugged. “But I speak of facts. The more men you have, the easier it will be to retake your throne. Fifteen thousand sellswords can be considered a fairly large army, but small in comparison to an entire continent. Unsullied are disciplined, obedient and will prove efficient against Westerosi knights in their formation. More effective than the walking meat-shields of Slavers Bay and the tiger warrior caste of Volantis.”

Young Griff remembered back of the story of the three thousand at Qohor, where the Unsullied fought against a much larger Dothraki force which charged straight into a wall of spears. But Dothraki were different from Knights, it was like night and day. But the prince did wonder. “If we were, how are we going to pay for it? I doubt that Magister Illyrio will buy them for us.”

The sellsword just turned to the dragons. “You may not have gold, but you have something worth much, much more.”

“No,” Dany quickly snapped. “They are ours. We won’t sell them to get some slaves with fat bellies. I don’t care if they are the best soldiers the world has ever known, the dragons are ours and will stay that way.”

“My princess,” Ser Jorah said after a pause. “There is wisdom in this sellsword’s words. Your dragons are three in the entire world, making them more then priceless. But the dragons are young, not large enough for a war, even for a few years. With Westeros in a civil war, the kingdoms are weak. But that is only temporary, you need an army. Trading a dragon for an army can give you the Iron Throne.”

Connington shook his head. “ _No_. We already have an army. We need the dragons. Aegon the first proved that then he conquered Westeros. He had three dragons, not pointy helmed eunuchs. We don’t need Unsullied.” 

“Ones which will die from a mere arrow,” Jorah growled. “If you can’t remember, Aegon and his dragons were more than a hundred years old. Massive beasts, these things are only slightly bigger than a cat.”

“They’re ours,” Daenerys almost yelled. “We hatched them, the eggs were gifts to us, not you. I agree with Lord Connington. We just need the Lost Legion and the Golden Company. When we land, others will come under our banner.”

Valarr watched them continue to argue with a sly smirk. He filled his silver cup and took a long sip. His voice was quiet, yet did stop them from continuing to shout. “You do realise, I never said give them a dragon, or even sell one.”

Jon looked at his curiously. “What do you mean, we have not the coin to pay for them and I doubt the slavers will just give us them.”

The commander took another sip of his wine. “Are you sure, my lord? For I have a plan which can work for both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	11. Daenerys IV

Even in the shade, the sun was worse than she ever expected. Their party walked through the red brick plaza of Astapor. Everything about the city was horrid: the smell, the sounds and worse of all, the sights.

Dany never wanted to come here, the city where boys were enslaved, castrated and turned into machines of war – unwavering, unbending and following orders to a fault – and they were going to buy them all. As much as Dany tried to persuade Aegon and Jon Connington not to agree with it, they both refused to budge. Her nephew at least seemed more sympathetic to her plight, claiming that it was a necessary evil to take the throne.

Daenerys sighed as they walked through the dust which got into and irritated her eyes, making her regret not getting a veil. Around them, slaves were being pushed forward by their Ghiscari masters with their queer shaped hair and bright silk tokars. Elephants and donkeys and mules lumbered through the streets, coating the roads with their waste. The brick walls of the city were crumbing, with many of the towers having collapsed and the ones remaining didn’t looked manned. Dany began to understand Valarr’s reasoning.

The Targaryen princess gazed at the top of the largest pyramid, at the peak was a massive harpy of hammered bronze. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen, with the legs of an eagle, wings of a bat. It had a women’s face, but the mouth was full of pointed teeth and rising behind it was a scorpion’s tail with an overly large sting. _The Harpy of Astapor_. Each city of Ghiscar had its own harpy, with each having a unique detail. The Harpy of Ghis had a thunderbolt whilst the Astapori Harpy had a chain dangling from its talons, looking ready to enslave anyone who got too close. 

“I don’t like this,” she complained to Ser Duck as they walked through the Plaza of Pride, with a massive harpy standing in the centre, made of bronze which reflected the sun, showing all the dents and scratches. Out of its breasts it filled a pool of brownish water which smelled of brimstone. She did want a drink, but not that. The air was thick and hot, like a wet blanket and the heat shimmering in the air had a dreamlike quality to it, making her feel light-headed. The bricks were baking and Dany could feel them through her sandals. “We should head back and go far away from here.”

“I wish to leave as well, milady,” the large knight with a shaggy beard said, his voice gentle. “I like this as much as you, but Griff has it stuck in his mind.”

_Jon is just following. It was Valarr who suggested it_. The sellsword could be quite charismatic when he wanted to be. Valarr had come with them, alongside a group of twenty of his finest sellswords. Half of that group was with them, forming a protective square whilst the other half were still on the ship. “I just want to go back.” _Back to Pentos or the house with a red door_. 

“Tell the silver haired whore to get over here and not hide like a sheep,” the Good Master called Kraznys mo Nakloz said in the rough growl of Ghiscari flavoured Valyrian. He was a large man, not close to Illyrio, but getting there. The slave trader’s hair was a strange mixture of black and red, which seemed unique to the Ghiscari and he wore a bright tokar of pale green silk decorated with baby pearls which rattled softly when he moved. In one hand he clasped his garment and in the other he wielded a leather whip. He was panting like a dog and the air around him was thick in the sickly sweet smell of blueberries. Supposedly, Kraznys knew none of the common tongue and it was Ser Jorah’s initial idea to keep their tongue secret whilst in Astapor, with the Good Master taking the liberty of speaking freely.  

The young Naathi translator looked at the ground, a pretty girl with dusky skin and large golden eyes. “The Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz asks that you don’t go far behind. He wishes you to have a good look of the stock.”

Dany inhaled but quickly regretting it with the taste of the city’s air. She hurried up to stand beside Aegon who was in his sellsword clothing even though his dye had been washed out. It was agreed that they play the part of ignorant Westerosi who had no knowledge of the Valyrian tongue.

The Good Master led them to where a century of Unsullied stood. In some ways, they were indistinguishable from statues, unblinking, completely still and their dead eyes staring forward. All wore only linen clouts around their loins, showing the sweating, scarred skin of their bodies. If they felt the heat, they said and did nothing. The one hundred slaves were a collection of different peoples, she saw. Some were men of the Free Cities, while others were pale skinned Qartheen, amber skinned Ghiscari, copper Dothraki, ebon faced Summer Islanders, as well as others she wasn’t so familiar with. All their faces were soft, with hairless cheeks yet they looked greatly different: some were slender while others were broader, some were tall while others were short and they were all different ages. Yet they stood as straight as each other.

“Are they not magnificent,” the trader said with pride as he ordered one to walk forward so everyone could have a closer look. “You sunset savages should be happy with them. You should go on the ground and thank me for giving you such an honour.” He stared at Dany with lecherous eyes.

Ever since the slaver started talking, Aegons face was a perpetual frown, but this only served to darken his face more. “May I ask how good they are in the open field, what of their training?”

After a few words, the meek slave recited about how the Unsullied were trained, starting with them being taken from their parents when they were young, selected for their speed, size and strength. At the age of five they trained from dawn to dusk, with only one in three surviving it. When they were told about the puppy and the baby, Dany felt rage clawing at her insides. She had been aware about the training of the Unsullied, but looking at them and being told directly whilst the master nodded with pride, just made her feel sick.

The translator was poked with the whip. “Tell these barbarians about them standing here all day and night, with no food and water. Tell them that they will fall on their swords if commanded, or stay still until death claims them. Such is their obedience. Tell them that.”

Connington shook his head. “Not courage, it is suicide. No man can do that.”

“But they are not men,” Valarr softly replied in the common tongue. “They are Unsullied.”

Dany wondered what Ser Jorah would say, but he was on the ship protecting the dragons. There was no shortage of men who would kill them just to be titled dragonslayer.

Aegon spoke up again. He hadn’t liked what was said, but under Jon's gaze he followed through with the plan. He poked questions, which Kraznys replied with sly insults but the translator answered the questions much more politely. At every slight Aegon was getting angrier, especially then they were directed towards her. His slender fingers were brushing against the ivory handle of his dirk. _Please don’t do anything, Aegon_. She had been told that the Unsullied were used in the defence of the city, while the city garrison were little more than walking bags of coin who dressed up in copper armour and pretended they were scourges of Old Ghis, according to Valarr.

When asked whether it was true that they felt pain, Kraznys pulled out a knife slid it slowly across the Dothraki slave, leaving a jagged line of torn flesh. Dark blood oozed out in a slow stream and the slave did nothing. The slaver gripped the nipple and hacked it off, leaving it hanging on a string of bloody flesh and the red eye was bleeding profusely. “This is the proof the boywhore wants. They don’t feel anything. Do you want him to loss another nipple?”

“If it pleases your worship,” the Unsullied said. The voice was flat.

Daenerys shot a look at Griff who was standing there like one of the Unsullied, his pale blue eyes somehow more lifeless. When the Good Master was about to cut the other off, Dany placed a hand on his, feeling the foul sweat stick to her fingers. “Tell the Wise Master that we can see how strong and courageous they are and how bravely they can deal with pain.” _It’s unnatural_. The eunuch just stared ahead like it was nothing. 

When that was translated, Kraznys snorted. “Tell the slut that they are obedient and not courageous.”

“The Good Master says courage has nothing to do with it.”

“Tell the whore to open her eyes.”

“He begs you watch carefully.”

In the corner of her eyes, Aegon looked ready to kill someone. When their eyes met, he turned away. The Ghiscari did the same with the other, leaving a bloody circle. Telling the translator to explain, the Naathi did so. She clarified that they drank an elixir called the wine of courage which dulled the pain the Unsullied experience, making them utterly fearless in battle and leaving them unable to get tortured for information. Nakloz was bobbing his head with a little grin. “Tell them that although they lack strength of one of her knights, they make up for it in discipline. In their lockstep they will hold against anything which is thrown at them. They won’t break, they won’t flee and will continue until they’re all dead. As perfect a soldier anyone could ever hope to get.”

When more of their questions were answered, Dany asked, “How many are for sale?” As much as she didn’t want to, they had agreed to do it. They needed a larger army to beat the Seven Kingdoms. Fifteen thousand just won’t be enough, even if they were the two best sellsword companies Essos had to offer.  

“Eight thousand. Fully trained and currently available. We only sell them by the hundred or the thousand, else they mingle with others and forget what they are.” When that was translated, the Good Master said, “These savages need to understand that the beauty of our craft doesn’t come cheap. Sellswords can be brought for coppers, but these are the best foot soldiers in the world, based on the Lockstep Legions of Old Ghis. Like Valyrian steel they are hammered and folded over for years on end. They only get stronger.” He prodded the translator. “Tell her that.”

“What equipment do they have,” Connington asked. “We can’t deal with Westerosi knights with ones who wear cloth. They’ll be butchered.”

“Sword, the three spears, shield, sandals and quilted tunics are included. Not to mention the spiked caps. They’ll wear whatever you wish they did, but you must provide it.”

Dany glanced at Aegon who was silent. _If it was up to him, the master would already be dead_. From the way her nephew was fingering his dirk, it was obvious. A good thing that Aegon stepped to the side and kept a sellsword in front before he did anything stupid. _Just wait_. She turned to the master and asked if it was possible for the Unsullied to betray them.

Kraznys scoffed. “What a mouthy fool. Unsullied are wed to their duty. If one tries to get them to betray you, they’ll give you his head. Neither will they try to save up coin, for they earn none and wish not to. They have no life outside their duty, it is all they know. They are the perfect soldiers and protectors.”

“We do need soldiers,” Dany admitted. Her hatred of Astapor was growing, as her distaste for slavery. But a future queen will have to make some tough decisions. “Soldiers need people to lead them. Do they have officers, serjeants?”

When it was translated, Kraznys snickered. “Do sheep lead sheep? No. They are trained to fight and follow without question, not lead. If she wants officers, she can buy herself some scribes.” He grinned. “I have some which can do perfectly.”  

Dany nodded and turned to her party. “We’ll consider the offer and we’ll meet again in two days’ time.”

The Good Master licked his cracked lips and spoke in his savage tongue, “That so. Tell her that if she needs some persuasion, tell her that if she wants a guide to the city, I’ll be more than happy to service her, or she can service me if she’s more women then girl.”

“Shall this one truly?” asked the slave meekly.

The little Naathi girl was prodded with the whip. “Are you a fool to think such a thing? No.”

The slave bowed her head. “Good Master Kraznys would be most pleased to show you Astapor while you ponder the decision, my lady,” the translator said. “There are many beautiful sights here. The pyramids at dusk, with the lanterns which are set loose in the sky. My master can take you on a pleasure barge down the river, where you can feast on the best delicacies Astapor can offer. Castrato will sing music from the gods, as dancers will dance for your amusement.”  

The slave trader continued to bob his head. “I’ll feed her the best dog Astapor has, with jellied monkey brains and screaming shrimp, with cat strew and honeyed locusts.” He licked his lips.

“Many delicious food is available to you,” the Naarthi said softly. “Good Master Kraznys is offering the best cuisine of this fine city. The Astapori wine is a fine vintage, alongside apricot. You can dine on sausages flavoured with the finest spices from the east—”

Before could say more, Dany quickly injected. “May I say that the heat is sapping my strength. I believe I need rest. I thank you for showing us them and we’ll consider the offer.” Without wasting time they headed back to the boat. The Targaryen princess felt sick to her stomach, for more reasons than one. It wasn’t the first time men spoke to her like that when she was Rohanne.

Her nephew walked beside her in silence on the way back to their ship. It was a strange city, much different from the Free Cities she was used to. _Bricks and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood its people_ , the rhyme went, with some saying that blood was mixed in with the mortar. She could understand it now. While it was mostly empty when they had journeyed inwards in the beginning, the streets were now almost full. Mostly slaves, but a few highborn in their tokars, with some riding asses as they whipped their processions.

“I’m sorry Dany,” Aegon said softly as their ship came into view. “I was . . . I was just afraid that if I talked, I would ruin everything. It was . . . the way he was talking to us, about you.” He stopped in his tracks, his arms shaking. “I’ll kill him. No one deserves to be spoken like that, especially you.”

“I understand.” Aegon could be rash, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that if he was talking with the slaver, he would likely lose it, spelling their death at worse or at best they would be beaten and thrown out the city. “You will, but we must wait.” For how hesitate she was with Valarr’s plan in the beginning, she was now beginning to support it. _No one will speak that way to us ever again. We are the blood of the dragon and the dragon will not be insulted._ This was a means to an end, nothing more. She hated it, but it was a necessary.

“Just let me and the boys find more about this city and the plan can be set into motion,” Valarr said. “But be wary, my prince. For half of my plans never go fully as expected due to one complication or another.”

“How encouraging,” Aegon muttered bitterly as he flicked his blond hair to the side.

“It wasn’t meant to be, it’s just a warning. Not everything is so clear.”

“I’m very much aware,” Aegon quickly snapped. He stopped at the ramp leading to up to the ship. “Are you sure this plan of yours can work?”

“I’m certain of it,” Valarr smirked. “Within a few days, you’ll be in a much better position, as will I.”

_A sellswords honour and motive_ , Dany thought bitterly. As she stepped to the deck, they were greeted by the rest of their party.

“Were the Unsullied as the stories claim,” Halfmaester questioned as he and Ser Mormont were in the middle of a game of cyvasse. From the look of it, Haldon was obviously winning. Around them, legionaries were carrying wooden crates up from the hold.

“Worse,” Daenerys replied, finally not holding back her feelings. “You need to know how they are trained. They go to the markets to find and kill a babe still at its mothers breasts . . .  then give a coin to the mother’s master.” _That army has already killed eight thousand children_. She knew it was more from those who didn’t make it. It was said only a third survived, so that would mean that the army of slaves could have already killed twenty-four thousand babes, more or less. She put a hand to her belly. Dany couldn’t even imagine what it felt like to have her child taken and killed before her eyes. It made her fill sick. It made her want to cry yet the tears didn’t come.

“It’s to be expected princess,” the knight of Bear Island said, his brows clinched from concentration as he planned his next move. He already lost, Daenerys knew. “Remember what I said. Unsullied never refuse an order. They won’t rape, for they can’t. They won’t pillage or put towns and cities to the sword, unless you demand it. There is a monster within every man which awakes once you put a sword in their hands. Unsullied aren’t like men.”

“Not anymore,” Daenerys said through clinched teeth as she looked at the busy port with galleys and cogs loading and unloading trading goods and slaves. She glanced at Aegon who decided to watch the game. “Should we do this,” she wondered, turning to her party. A part of her wanted to remain and do what they came to achieve, while another part just wanted to leave Slaver’s Bay and not look back. _But what if I make the wrong choice?_

Septa Lemore didn’t waste time as she stepped down from the forecastle. “Unsullied are slaves.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s an abomination. An evil that is decried by the faith of the Seven. If you lead an army of slaves, people both good and bad will stand together to fight against you. We shouldn’t have come here. You both can still go back. People will stand up for both of you and fight for their rightful king and queen.”

Connington groaned. “An army is needed to conqueror Westeros, not words or faith. Eight thousand spears, what does that book of yours give? Zero swords and people to wield them. Actions, not words are going to get the Iron Throne.”

“When people find out they are slaves, they are going to rebel as soon as they can, or will resist you with everything they’ve got. They tolerated Targaryen incest, but they won’t tolerate slavery.”

Aegon turned to the Septa. “Will they tolerate an army looting and raping? I don’t think so. We’re going to Westeros to regain the Iron Throne, I don’t want to pillage the surrounding lands. That’s not the kind of king I want to be. Those Unsullied are better in our hands then someone else’s.” He quickly turned to Valarr who was leaning on the side of the vessel, watching his men. “This is a warning, when we do this plan I want no rape or murdering of innocents. Loot the slavers homes to your heart’s desire, but no rape.”

The sellsword only tilted his head. “You must be aware that my men will get angry if I give that order.”

“I don’t care if they’re angry. We’re paying you to do as we say. If you aren’t aware, my mother was raped before she was murdered. I won’t let that happen to anyone else. If you’re incapable of controlling your men, I’ll find myself a sellsword company which can.” Lord Connington looked at her nephew with some pride. Valarr looked taken aback, but he agreed with it. He quickly snapped to where a crate dropped. “What’s in there?”

Valarr smirked and turned to the wooden mound. “You Targaryens have dragons. The Golden Company’s got elephants. The Lost Legion has crossbows.”

“Crossbows,” Jon asked flatly. “How am I meant to be impressed?”

“Not just any crossbows, ser. Repeaters from the east. What they lack in strength and accuracy, they make up for quantity and speed. Quite useful for an urban environment like this and against the walking pigs who supposedly guard the city.” He chuckled.

There was a fake cough and both Aegon and Daenerys turned around. “Mind if I ask how you’re going stop your full army, your grace,” Jorah questioned. “When the Golden Company and the Lost Legion join together with the Unsullied and attack Westeros, how are you going to control them? Unsullied may be eunuchs, but the other two are men who will lose control when the beast within them stirs. They will rape and kill, loot and pillage. Unsullied won’t do any of those things unless you command it, the Golden Company and the Legion will indulge in it when it suits them. How are you going to control them?”

“It will be hard,” her nephew admitted as he ran his fingers through his hair, before turning to him with a determination in his face. “But if I hear it is done, I’ll find the perpetrators and geld and execute them.”

Annoyed and tired, Daenerys returned to her cabin below the ship. She conversed with Doreah and Septa Lemore, as well as spending time with the dragons. All that helped to keep the Unsullied and Yunkai away from her mind.

“They’re getting bigger,” her handmaid said as Vhagar rested its head on her lap, his bronze eyes lazy and looking ready to sleep. She was stroking it. He was beautiful, Dany thought, with his scales a dark green, like moss. “I remember when I was a girl . . . I’d always wanted to see one, but they were all extinct.”

“Were extinct, but not anymore,” Septa Lemore said with a soft laugh. The dimness of the cabin made her eyes seem as black as Valarr’s. “They were wild when you had gone, my princess. Balerion the most.”

“Did he do anything?” Dany asked cautiously. The last thing she wanted was them getting wild, which was the worst thing they could do. They were getting older so it could be expected, but still. 

Doreah shook her head as she stoked the lazy dragon’s neck. It stirred slightly but that was it. “They were loud and snapped at me . . . but only tore off a part of my dress.” She gave a look to the septa.

“Truly?” She glanced at Meraxes which was laying next to her, his white tail wrapped around her arm as if to keep her close. They were getting too big to go on her shoulder which both upset Dany and gave her relief. Their claws and teeth were getting sharper and harder, leaving a few scars on her skin from where they tried to play with her like they used to. _Dragons, not pets_ , she had to remember. “Did they try to set anything on fire?” _Dragon’s aren’t meant to be held. They’re meant to be free_.

The Lyseni shook her head. “Not at us, but Balerion breathed his fire at the air and almost ignited the bedding . . . Ser Jorah had to throw water at it . . .” she trailed off and turned away.

They were small now, but Daenerys had to remember it was dragons that had burnt down Harrenhal, melting the stone of the towers like candles. _Maybe they’ll grow just as big_ , she thought as she stroked her sleeping cream Meraxes. _Creatures of fire and destruction_ , the Essosi histories told. _Creatures which held a tight grasp over the civilised peoples of the world, serving their masters until the doom. Creatures of fire and death, but also order. Uniting peoples and bringing the golden age to the Freehold_. She let that stick in her mind. _With dragons, we’ll will bring a golden age to Westeros, under House Targaryen_.

In the largest Pyramid they stood before the Good Masters who looked down at them atop a lofty dais, all eight were seated on finely crafted thrones shaped in the likeness of a harpy. At the bottom of the steps were four Unsullied, with another four standing next to the doors, each standing just as still as those in the plaza. All eight Masters were mumbling amongst themselves.

Dany was thankful it was cool inside the pyramid, a contrast to the suffocating warmth and dust of the city streets. But it was a shame that the Masters wore an overpowering amount of perfume which made her nose itch. Green light filtered through the diamond shaped windows on the sloped walls which were full of tapestries of past histories of Ghiscar, one of which sported the remnants of an ancient Valyrian army in chains and dragons laying dead.

“Apologises, but this worthless slave’s ears must have misheard. Did this one hear that you wanted all?”

Aegon nodded. He was in a better mood then he was a few days previously. “Your ears didn’t mishear. We want all the Unsullied, all eight thousand of them, plus the ones still in training.” He shot her a smile and the slave immediately blushed. “We’re going to fight a war, some will die and others will need to pick up the spears they drop.”

The Good Masters continued bickering amongst themselves, their faces showing their amusement. When one shouted in his horrid tongue, the slave needlessly relayed it in the common language. “Good Master Grazdan the Honourable wonders how you can afford to . . . afford to pay for the ten thousand, six hundred Unsullied.”

“We cannot sell half-trained boys,” cried out one the few which was also called Grazdan, after Grazdan the Great who founded the old Empire of Ghis. 

The other turned to him, the one with a tokar in silver fringes. “If their gold is true, we can. They’re made to sell, not hoard.”

“Look at these barbarians, look at them. They are as poor as the dirt we walk on and they’re outsiders. All know they aren’t to be trusted.”

“They are not proper Unsullied. They have yet to kill their babes. If they fail in the field, they will bring shame upon all of Astapor. If we sell them and these creatures have the coin, it will take decades to bring back the number.”

A fat one gulped down on wine before declaring, “We can wait. I would rather have a fat purse now then one later. If the coin is good, then why not? Unsullied are to sell, these are possible buyers.”

Dany watched them bicker as she bit into a piece of fruit which was so sweet it almost made her eyes water. As she listen to their conversation, Daenerys was having trouble keeping her face blank and ignorant. Five of them wanted the Unsullied sold, while the other three didn’t. _The dragons will get what they want, no matter the price._ While there were thousands of slave traders in the city, but these were the most important, the only sellers of Unsullied slave soldiers in the world, the majority of which wanted to sell them to her and Aegon.

It was Grazdan who announced the decision, repeated by the translator. “His most honourable Grazdan says that if your coin proves sufficient, you may buy the eight thousand Unsullied and the six centuries. In two years’ time, you may come back and buy the other two thousand.”

“In that time, we’ll be in Westeros,” Dany replied, walking forward. “We need them _now_ , not later. The price doesn’t matter, we’ll pay as much for a boy without his helm as one with.”

The girl relayed that and gave the answer. It was still no.

Daenerys frowned and Aegon muttered something under his breath. “Well then, we’ll pay double for them all.”

“Double? For them all?” A fat one in a golden tokar was almost drooling.

“Both the silver haired whores are fools. Each is better placed in a pleasure house then here,” Kraznys snickered, “they’ll both will be worth quite a bit of coin.” He paused, glancing at his fellow masters who were still muttering amongst themselves. “They’re both so desperate to pay, we can ring out some more coin from them. Ask for triple for every slave. Yes.”

Another spoke out quickly, which the Naathi was rushing to translate. “Good Master Grazdan the Fair, asks how are you going to pay for all the Unsullied?”

A portion of the gold offered to the Lost Legion was brought to Astapor for the purpose of watering the slavers mouths, for that it did its purpose. But that gold wasn’t to pay for the Unsullied. It was a dragon. While they both had dragons of their own, Aegon had Balerion and Daenerys had Meraxes. Vhagar was a spare. A spare which was to get them an army.

Aegon spoke up, his voice had a fierce strength to it. “We could offer you promises and words, but that is as worthless as the air we all breathe. You want gold now.” He grinned. “Give them all to us, and you can have yourselves a dragon.” As much as she didn’t want to, Dany inhaled sharply. She knew it was coming, but she didn’t want it to. “What’s a dragon compared to an army such as this?”

Aegons words tasted bitter on Dany’s tongue. Westeros was their throne, their kingdom, but the dragons were theirs as well. They both raised them, fed them, taught them. The dragons were like her children. It was the reason Aegon nicknamed her ‘mother of dragons’ in jest. They _were_ her children. They needed her. They were the only three in the world.  

The Good Masters’ smiled glittered with their teeth. All unable to keep a plain expression. While Slavers Bay had thousands upon thousands of slaves, there were only three dragons, making her children worth more than any amount of gold. Five times the old Ghiscari Empire fought against the Freehold and five times the empire lost, because the freehold had dragons and the empire did not. As such, the Ghiscari had a lust for the creatures, one which could not be sated.

Grazdan the Old stirred on his throne. “A dragon, in return for the Unsullied.”

“Done. We have three, but there are only two of us. You can have the third, the green one. He is strong and healthy.”

“Done,” one Master said, which was quickly followed up with another seven. “Done and done,” the translator said, “eight times done.”   

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue soon enough,” Kranzys mo Nakloz added. “But until then and for a token of a bargain well done, you shall have the girl. When the agreements are all struck, you shall have your army.”

“We shall,” Aegon replied. Dany glanced at the slave girl. If she had feelings about being taken by strangers, she didn’t show them. They turned and left, with Ser Ducks and Ser Connington's armour rattling as they left the audience chamber. When the doors closed behind them, her nephew rubbed his forehead. “That was harder than I thought. I felt like my throat tightened and every fibre of my being yelled at me to refuse to offer the dragon.”

“You agreed to the deal,” the exiled lord said sternly. “When you’re king, you can’t back away from decisions just because you don’t like it. Especially when they’re needed.”

“I know,” Aegon mumbled. “But still . . . giving away a dragon, it’s just . . . ugh.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It pained me to even say it.”

“It can be expected,” Dany replied softly. “They’re ours, the creatures our ancestors raised and trained.” _The only three left in the world_. She turned to the young translator who stood meekly beside her. “What’s your name?” Spoken in High Valyrian. “Or do I have to pull your name out the barrel like the Unsullied?” Duck chuckled at that and Aegon broke into a smile.

“No, my lady . . . forgive this one, your slave didn’t believe you spoke High Valyrian. This slave is named Missandei.”

“Slave?” She didn’t like that word. All her life, she knew about slaves and how they were treated, but it was Astapor which opened her eyes. “Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, we have no need for a translator. We plan on going to the Seven Kingdoms, if you wish to follow, you may. But I can also send you back to your home, provided you have one. If you decide to stay, you may be one of my handmaids, but you may be free to leave when you wish.”

The girl looked shocked, quickly she averted her eyes. “This one will stay . . . this one . . . I mean, I have no place to go. This one gladly offers her services, if my master accepts.”

“Then you may. But be warned, for I offer you freedom with this, but not safety. Me and my husband have wars to fight in Westeros. Hunger, sickness and death can all take you.”

“ _Valar morpulis_ ,” Missandei replied.

The dawn began with the shrieks of Vhagar as he tried to break free of the leather keeping him leashed to the roofless litter. He tried to gnaw it off and once tried to set it alight, but damp leather burnt as well as expected. As Daenerys predicted, the entire city had come out to meet them. She looked out the curtains which helped protect her from the elements whilst Aegon rode outside atop a white stallion and behind them rode their three knights in full mail who had their weapons at the ready. Whilst the city was distracted with the dragons, the sellswords in their employ were meant to be around the docks.

The red bricked streets were crowded, with almost the entire city showing up to see one of her children. Slaves and freemen filled the streets, all pushing and shoving each other for a better look; while the nobility looked down from their stepped pyramids or laid atop palanquins as they were being served by an army of slaves who fanned them and provided all their other needs. A few children in soiled clothes tried to get closer but they were pushed back by one of the dozen mounted lancers who served as part of their honour guard, the blinding light reflecting off the polished copper disks which decorated their cloaks.

Slaves helped her and Aegon dismount after they entered the plaza. Kraznys had his hands full, one holding up his tokar and the other had a whip. Others were in a similar situation, except they held wine in finely crafted silver and gold cups instead of leather. All were talking amongst themselves, staring at the green creature as it flapped frantically. Dany turned away from the highborn Astapori and towards what will be their army, all standing like the bricks they stood on; ranks upon ranks of them in their spiked helms. While the two thousand Unsullied at the back didn’t wear them, they stood as straight and still as those in front.

Aegon stared at them. “This army is much larger than I expected.” His voice when went hushed. “You think it’s worth it?”

Dany turned to look at his handsome face. “It’s too late to go back now.” _You wanted this, you can’t back out_. “In front of us is an army to take us home.” _If we look back now, we’re lost_.

The eldest Grazdan and the other Good Masters were positioned near the front line of Unsullied, all atop sedan chairs which made Daenerys wonder how strong the slaves were. Kraznys gestured the Targaryen’s forward as well as giving them a few words on how to handle the slave soldiers. “Tell the Westerosi savages that they should do best to blood their slaves early. There are many cities to the east, all fat and bloated, all ready for a good sacking. Her and her boywhore may take whatever they want, for the Unsullied will take nothing. Should they take captives, they may bring them here and we’ll offer a fair price,” he licked his lips. “The young pretty ones can be sold and trained for the brothels. We’ll offer twice as much for girls and triple for boys. The healthy boy’s ones meanwhile can be trained to fight, and who knows? Some of them may be Unsullied in ten years.” When Missandei needlessly translated the words, Aegon thanked the Good Master for the words and said he’ll consider it. “Thus we shall all prosper.”

Aegon nodded. “That is your part, and now ours.” He gestured to Vhagar. “The—”

“—Dragon,” finished Ghazdan in the common tongue, his accent thick and heavy in the flavour of Old Ghis. Connington detached the rope from the litter and Dany took it, handing the leash to Kraznys, who in turn handed the whip to Aegon.

The Master smiled from ear to ear even as the dragon tried to free itself. “You have it. Tell them that the army is theirs.”

Aegon glanced at the whip, with its black dragonbone handle and the golden claws which laid at the end of the leather lashes. Then her nephew turned to her and the rest of the party. “It is mine. _IT IS MINE!_ ” Aegon turned to the Unsullied. “ _YOU NOW BELONG TO US. THE TARGARYENS. UNDER THE DRAGON YOU WILL MATCH!_ ” He shouted it all in High Valyrian. Dany glanced at the Ghiscari who all looked at the dragon, shouting thanks to their gods. All except old Grazdan who stared at Aegon, like he knew what was about to happen. “ _MATCH FORWARD!_ ” They did so. “ _STOP!_ ” His smirk only grew.

_It worked. They are now ours_. Daenerys turned, slowly enough to glimpse at the flayed slaves who were presented in the plaza. Smoke come from the dragon’s maw and nose as it resisted being dragged down. The Astapori were shouting at it like it was a mere beast. _Our war has began_. “Having trouble?”

“The damn thing won’t listen.”

“A dragon is not a slave,” she roared at them, feeling fire erupting from her belly. The master didn’t turn around, instead continued trying to yank Vhagar down. 

The knights pulled out their swords and Aegon turned to face Kraznys. “Listen to us, slaver. You made a mistake when you dared insult the dragon.”

The slave trader took notice of that. “You speak Valyrian?”

Aegon had a smug grin on his face, not that she could blame him. He had an army in his hand, willing to listen to his every command without question. “I am Aegon Targaryen, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and sixth of my name. Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Valyria is my ancestral home, the tongue which I speak. You made a mistake when you dared insult me or my wife.” He lunged forward, tearing his dirk from the sheath and thrusting it into the Master’s eye.

The dragon was freed.

The Plaza of Punishment erupted into chaos. Masters shouted for the Unsullied, shrieking, or stumbling on their tokars in their haste to flee. The demon horned defenders of Astapor tried in vain to control their mounts as the dragon circled above them. The masters own Unsullied bodyguards rushed into position whilst the city guard either followed or fled. Dany could barely hear it when Aegon shouted the command. The Unsullied which had stood dormant in the plaza suddenly moved. Lowering their spears and rising their shields, they moved forward in unison, slaying the lancers and anyone else who got too close.

All around them, the highborn cried, begged and died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	12. Aegon V

It was believed they were the best soldiers in the world. Unbreakable morale and trained in the lockstep formations of Old Ghis. Their three spears: pikes, spears and javelins made them almost unbeatable from a frontal assault as well as making them the terror of any cavalry force in the world. Aegon knew they’ll work marvels against knights like those from the Vale and Reach. The formation was renowned after all, with even the Golden Company emulating them and it was the thing which turned Ghis from a simple fishing town to the capital of a mighty empire.

If Aegon had any doubts on their effectiveness, they were lost after the sacking of Astapor. Under his command, the now former slaves marched out the city with all the loot that could be carried. Precious stones of all shapes and sizes, silk garments of fantastic colours; exotic furs and skins, foods and wines; ivory and so much silver and gold. All the exotic goods would be worth quite a fortune. He knew, all of which will be used to pay back Magister Illyrio as well as hire ships and swords for Westeros.

The prince reclined back against the cushions which littered the inside of his pavilion, a few days ride from the red city. He could remember the battle – if it could be called that, it was more of a slaughter – where the city garrison tried their hardest to hold the city. But in the end the Astapori failed and the city submitted to the dragons. Many vessels at the docks had been captured by the Lost Legion before the population could flee to the ships. Now the Targaryens had a fleet of forty under their control, all sailed by former slaves who were promised coin to serve under the three headed dragon.

Valarr was sitting beside him, having switched out of his dark purples silks out for dark red. A sign of his loyalty to the Targaryen cause, the sellsword commander had claimed. “The treasures have been counted, my prince. It’s not something to be understated.” He took a sip and smirked. “With Astapor looted and all its wealth in our hands, we can do another. We still need more ships to transport our army and plunder around Old Valyria and to the Disputed Lands.”

Aegon knew that Valarr was about to say. _How could he not say it? He’s a sellsword, fighting for profit is his life’s work_. “May I ask what your answer to that is?”

“We should head north, to Yunkai.” He sounded excited, like he’d been waiting to say it for eternity.

Aegon sighed and swirled his cup. “We have a fleet and an army of ten thousand. Why loot another?” They came to Slavers Bay to get an army. They got that and more, much more. Aegon had never seen this amount of wealth which had been laid out in their camp as they planned what to do next.

Valarr smiled that cunning smile. “Your dragons need time to grow, as you can see. Yunkai is far richer than Astapor. The yellow city is so full of gold that it is said that the Wise Masters shit it—”

“So you’re telling me to use their shit to use it to get more swords and ships, is that what you were about to say?”

The sellsword nodded. “Aye. Our fleet isn’t large enough to sail around our current army let alone . . . twenty, thirty thousand across the narrow sea for our invasion. But not just men. Horses, elephants and all our camp followers as well.”

_He has a point_ , Aegon grudgingly admitted. They had sacked one city and he didn’t feel an urge to do the same for another, especially when his eyes should be looking west where his home was waiting. But he lacked the fleet necessary for such a campaign. _And more gold wouldn’t hurt. Go to Westeros with the wealth of the east. The kingdom will be devastated after all her wars_. “I’ll consider it.” He wondered what Jon and Dany will think, but because he was the rightful king, Aegon had the final say.

The prince commanded his servant to summon his wife and Griff. It didn’t take long for both to arrive. After they had left the city, both Targaryens switched out of their poor garbs and into something more worthy of their proper station. After all, they couldn’t continue to disguise themselves as poor then they had an entire army at their back and following their every command.

Aegon gave Dany a quick peck on the cheek before both taking a seat. She was getting bigger with the child inside her. It was no longer a gentle swell and was quickly getting evermore pronounced. _My child_. He was first told of her pregnancy in Pentos, while they were waiting for the dragons to get stronger. Aegon couldn’t have been more thrilled, he kissing her before swinging her around the room, both laughing. The prince smiled at the thought.

Connington stood by the entrance, looking impatient. The exiled lord wanted them to hire more ships and head straight to the Disputed Lands, then plan for the invasion of Westeros. Aegon couldn’t blame the man who raised him. _Sixteen years we’ve waited. We have been waiting that long, we can continue to wait a few months longer_.

“May I ask what my dear husband wants,” Daenerys asked with a smile as she looked at the three dragons curled atop a pile of silken cushions, Vhagar laying furthest away whilst Balerion and Meraxes were curled around each other. Quiet for once.

Aegon gently took her hand in his, feeling the warmth of her skin. “Valarr has urged that we head against the city of Yunkai. We lack the necessary ships to sail our army and if we take the yellow city, we’ll have more coin as well as a larger fleet. Both of which will greatly help us in Westeros.”

While Dany looked conflicted, Jon quickly spoke up. “We should be heading towards Westeros, not Yunkai. That is where your claim is, my prince, not Slaver’s Bay. We came here for an army, we’ve got it. There is no need to remain here.”

“We have two armies of sellswords to join us. They’ll demand coin to fight. The cities offer us coin.” _Lots of it_.

Then Dany spoke up. “How many slaves are in the city?”

That surprised everyone. “Two hundred thousand, if not more,” Ser Jon Connington replied after some hesitation. “May I ask why her grace asks?”

“We have two hundred thousand reasons to take the city.”

_What’s she talking about?_ Aegon sat up and put his drink to the side. “Dearest wife, may I ask you what you are referring to?”

She turned to him, there was a strange strength in her eyes. “Aegon, since we met, we’ve encountered slaves of every kind. Tutors, household slaves, priests and entertainers. From what we saw, they were well treated, or I so believed. So I accepted it, thought of it being a normal part of life . . . the natural order of things. But Astapor has opened my eyes to the truth. The training of the Unsullied and how they treated all the slaves back there . . . flayed and left out in the sun, beaten and killed for the entertainment of the crowds. _No_. I won’t allow that to happen anymore. We’ve got dragons, an army, so we have got the power to liberate Slavers Bay from the yoke of their masters.”

The rest of them exchanged uneasy glances. Valarr spoke up, “Your grace, I praise you for your compassion, but to eliminate the slave trade here will be nigh impossible. Ever since Old Ghis, slavery has been deeply ingrained into the culture. To fully wipe it out will require men, resources and decades of years to see only the beginning of change. Unless you plan to stay and rule, you shouldn’t attempt it.”

Jon Connington nodded. “Little princess, like Valarr, I can see kindness in your heart, but Slaver’s Bay won’t change. If you want to help people, go to Westeros. The people will flock to you and as queen you can help them. Both be the Targaryen’s that people should remember, like Rhaegar.” 

Aegon leaned back as the rest started arguing going against Dany’s idea. _It’ll just be impractical_ , he thought. It had been Dany’s idea to free the slaves in the red city, which he guessed should have given him some foresight. With many slaves having no other place to go, they wanted to follow. Although Daenerys wanted to allow them, Jon refused to hear it and claimed they would strip their rations clean and once they hear food is available, more will inevitably follow. _She wants to go up north and it can give us benefits. Two more large cities stand near us, all fat with wealth and ships_. “My dearest wife does have a point.” He paused when they all turned to him, all shocked. Dany grinned, knowing he was siding with her. Whilst Aegon didn’t agree with the idea of liberating the slaves, promises of riches were enough for him. “We head north to Yunkai. If they meet us in battle, all the better for me to get some actual practise before we head home to Westeros. If not, we simply loot them just as we did Astapor.”

With both Targaryen’s wanting to head north, Connington had no choice but to capitulate to their demands. Grey Worm was told to mobilise the army. Not that it took long to pack up their camp and press forward, following the Valyrian road which linked the cities of Slaver’s Bay. As the army marched, Aegon scouted ahead with their mounted legionaries where he learned how to command and organise the men. Not like he needed to be do much. The organisation of the Unsullied was well apparent and their own selected officers did what was required of them without much oversight from his part.

As the sun set, they organised the camp. Unsullied dug a ditch and began planting sharpened stakes of birch to ward off any bandits or wild animals. Grey Worm claimed that the Unsullied couldn’t sleep in an unfortified camp. When he was overseeing the rest of his officers and spearmen, Aegon conversed with him. “How goes the encampment?”

“This one report it’s going good, your grace. These ones thirst for battle against the Yunkai and for your respect.”

“My respect you’ve already got,” the prince said. _You gained that at Astapor_. It was Dany who had offered them freedom after the sack. He could see the rationale, Westeros wouldn’t accept slavery. While they accepted, they didn’t wish to leave, saying that following orders was all they knew and will serve those who freed them. It was Connington and Jorah who were training the officers how to command. After all, no one knew Unsullied better than the Unsullied themselves.

“These ones still have much to prove. The ways of the three spears are what these ones know, while the slaves of Yunkai know the ways of the seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure. Grey Worm will be eager to lead and fight for you.”

“You don’t have to use that name, you know. We don’t follow that practise, you are free. As such you can choose your own name.” Some others did. Taking their old names if they could remember, whilst others named themselves after weapons, rocks, flowers or anything they preferred. It was all quite strange and some were frankly quite humorous.  

“This one wishes not. Grey Worm is a lucky name. It was the name this one got before being granted freedom. The name this one once had before was unlucky, for this one received chains for that. Now this one is free.”

Aegon nodded. “Then let the slavers fear the name Grey Worm.”

Night quickly crept up to the camp the next day when Aegon returned from scouting and headed straight to the tent in the centre of their encampment. Daenerys was already in bed, with her two handmaids sleeping at the foot and the dragons sleeping in the corner. She was sitting up, reading a small tome by a candle. “How’s the army?”

“Good,” Aegon replied as he flicked some silver hair out of his eyes and stripped out of his travel stained silks. They were progressing towards Yunkai at a reasonable pace, yet Aegon was beginning to grow impatient. He didn’t know what was happening in Westeros, whether they were still fighting or were beginning to reconcile. If it was the latter, they would need to move quickly. “But I do sometimes question our decision.”

“It needs to be done,” Dany softly said, putting down the book. “We have much to gain from this campaign.”

“But it will take time,” Aegon complained as he slid in beside her. The feather bedding was soft and filled with goose feathers. He smiled and gently felt the swell of her belly. “Thought of any names for our heir?” Boy or girl, it didn’t matter. The only thing which mattered was that it was theirs.

Daenerys smiled and cuddled close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I thought of naming them after our family we’ve never known. Rhaegar for a boy, Rhaenys for a girl.”

“Father and sister,” he mumbled softly. Aegon liked Rhaenys, but he wasn’t so sure about naming his child after his father. Rhaegar did help almost bring about the end of their house for seducing and running away with the Stark girl, abandoning his family to face the Lannister dogs.

Dany turned to him, the candles dancing in her dark eyes. “I understand you have . . . less than favourable views on him, but he _is_ your father and _my_ brother. Don’t do it for him, do it for me.”

_You know how to play me_. Just looking in her eyes made him unable to refuse. Aegon sighed, intertwining his fingers with hers. Dany smiled at that, knowing she had won. “For you, I will. We’ll have little prince Rhaegar and princess Rhaenys.” He then kissed her on the lips, where they soon became tangled in each other’s arms.

Aegon smirked as he looked down the hill at where the Yunkai and their sellsword companies awaited them. Ser Jon Connington and Rolly Duckfield stood beside him, as well as five members of the Legion, all of them mounted. “Five thousand, I’m guessing. Is that correct, my lord?”

Jon nodded. “A rough guess, but I believe so. Look there, sellswords on the flanks. Lancers and mounted bowmen. You can see by their banners, Stormcrows on the right and the Second Sons on the left. I’d say they both have five hundred apiece.”

Aegon nodded as his mount fidgeted under him. While the sellswords formed the flanks, the Yunkai'i formed the centre, their banners showing a harpy grasping a whip and iron collar instead of the chains of Astapor. The Yunkai officers looked very similar to those of the red bricked city: tall polished helms which seemed too cumbersome and bright yellow cloaks decorated with copper disks. “I doubt its professional soldiers they lead. Are they slaves?”

“It’s Slaver’s Bay, slaves are more than likely form a part of their armies. But I expect a large number to be formed of citizens being levied to fight. Outfitted like the Unsullied or the Iron Legions of New Ghis but they can’t match either in a pitched battle. Yunkai is known for the selling and creation of bed slaves, not soldiers as was Astapor.”

“They block our way. What are the chances of victory?”

Jon just stared at the army, calculating his chances before finally replying, “Victory will be ours, but the cost will be high.”

“High? I thought that the Unsullied were the best soldiers in the world.” Aegon looked back at the army before him. It didn’t seem that organised to him. The camp at the rear of the army was largely a disorganised mess and the army itself didn’t look well equipped. The sellswords wore their wealth on their person and the Yunkai soldiers had similar gear to the Unsullied, whilst their slaves just looked to have had weapons put in their hands.

“Aye, they are among the most disciplined soldiers,” Jon replied. “But you have to remember that we lack archers and cavalry. The Unsullied are skilled at what they do, but our entire army is just them and we have nothing to support them. We have twice their number, but the sellswords can flank around and take us in the flanks and rear. That is the weakness of the Unsullied.”

Aegon cursed under his breath. The only cavalry they did have were twelve legionaries who survived taking the port. They all had mounts, but the prince doubted they could resist against a thousand strong force. “So what do you think we should do?”

Jon hummed. “They are sellswords. They can be paid to kill but you can never pay them to die. With some convincing and a show of strength, they’ll likely switch sides.”

_The trustworthiness of mercenaries_. The Golden Company was renowned to never go back on a contract, while others didn’t have the repute. Something he could take advantage of. “If that is the case, tell their commanders to come and pay us a visit. The Yunkai as well, perhaps we can convince them to pay us off.” _Ships and gold should be sufficient_. “Midday. Make sure the sellswords are apart, two hours will be preferable.”

“Aye, my prince. But what if they refuse our offer?”

Aegon turned around, smirking. “We have Unsullied, three dragons and a lot of gold. But if they’re not wise enough to take my offer . . . well then, they’ll understand the words _fire and blood_.”

The air was flat and without wind as they rode back to camp. The tents had already been set up and the Unsullied were busy digging the ditch and sharpening stakes. Camp aids rushed to assist and helped Aegon dismount. Ser Jorah walked over, clad in heavy mail and a green surcoat with a black bear standing on its hind legs. The knight lowered his head. “What meets us, my prince?”  

“The Yunkai’i have finally stopped hiding behind their walls and have come to meet us in the field like fools. Five thousand men, it seems. One thousand slave soldiers, three thousand citizen militia and a thousand cavalry from the Second Sons and Stormcrows.”

The knight nodded solemnly. “From what I know, the Yunkai aren’t a martial people, much preferring to pay their enemies off rather than fight. But expect them to be staunch initially, after all they’ll be fighting to protect their homes and families. But once their formation breaks, they’ll flee with their tail between their legs.” ”  

Aegon removed his gloves and flexed his fingers. “That’s the Yunkai, but what of the sellswords, you mention you fought with them once, is that correct?”

“Aye. I fought with the Stormcrows once, but only for a short campaign in the Disputed Lands. If they’re mounted, both will be the greatest threats on the field.”

The prince nodded. “Good, I want to meet with them. See if they can be persuaded to point their swords somewhere else.” _Just for this battle, then they can fuck off for all I care_. The last thing he wanted was to have unreliable swords following him. _I want Westeros to love the Targaryen’s not despise us_.

“A cunning idea, my prince. Shall I prepare for them?”

“Why do you think I’m telling you? Tell the Unsullied commanders and tell them to prepare. _Now_.” The knight bowed his head and left, with Aegon returning to his pavilion. Daenerys was reclining lazily over a pile of cushions, her feet were bare, her silver-blonde hair hanging over her side and she wore a loose lilac dress of satin which glowed with the light of the candles. At her feet were the three dragons who fought over the meat Doreah and Missandei threw on the floor. The air was strong in the smell of sulphur which had been attempted to be covered with sweet perfumes. “Getting bigger, I see.” _And fiercer_. 

Dany nodded absentmindedly as she watched them. Balerion was the largest and regularly came out on top. “And they’ll continue so. They eat a lot so I sometimes wonder if we run out of meat to feed them. They certainly like sheep.” She looked up at him, a smirk forming. “So how was it, dearest nephew? Have the Wise Masters done anything so far?”

“Wise, I wouldn’t say. They’ve decided to meet us with half our number a few miles ahead. We’re going to meet with them.”

“The slavers?” She frowned at that. But when he explained his plan, Dany smirked. “You are growing more cunning, Egg.”

“Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.” The stupid name she called him when she had found about Aegon the fifth and what he was nicknamed. She used to call him all the time before he managed to make her relent.  

Dany only laughed. “Did I hurt my sweet nephews’ feelings?”

“More then you know,” he couldn’t help but smile slightly at that. “Let’s see how wise the Masters are.”

It was around midday when Ser Jorah and Duck entered, followed by three sellswords of the Second Sons. Each had black plumes on their helms and were clad in highly polished armour engraved with gold and silver. All three captains claimed to of equal standing. Aegon studied each carefully. The first was a Ghiscari, his hair going grey, winkles on his dark skin and a broad face, he called himself Prendahl na Ghezn. Then there was a Qaartheen by the name of Sallor the Bald, who had a horrid cut to his cheek and last there was a Tyroshi dressed even more flamboyantly when most he had seen. The sellswords all stared at the dragons and eagerly took the wine.

It was Prendahl who spoke for them all. “You both are inexperienced children who have rose above their station. Take your rabble of slaves elsewhere. You may have a cunning to sack Astapor, but we and our friends of Yunkai know you were coming and have prepared. We will not fall so easily.”

“Really?” Dany questioned as she scratched Meraxes’ scaly neck. “Four thousand bed slaves armed with spears alongside a thousand horsemen, fighting against ten thousand Unsullied and the Lost Legion.”

“Lost Legion?” That was when Valarr made himself noticed. He was standing by the entrance, half his body coated in shadow. The sellsword smirked in the usual way he did when the three captains turned around. “You’re not. You only have a few riders. The Lost Legion has thousands.”

“Because that is all I need to deal with you," the dragonseed said with mockery. "We all know that the Stormcrows are sheep. The only good thing they do it to beep and run, far away, at the first sound of thunder.”

“You’re a fool to think you can dare insult me. I should kill you where you stand,” the Ghiscari yelled, his hands fast reaching the grip of his weapon. The knights and Unsullied were at the ready, quickly reaching there. Valarr was unfazed, just rolling his eyes.

Aegon spoke up, “You may want to start running now. Sellswords like yourselves are very fickle. Especially your allies the Second Sons, they ran like at the gates of Qohor. You may find yourselves being the only cavalry on the field.” It was likely that Prendahl had kin in either Astapor or Yunkai. _If that is the case, I can respect his kinship with his blood. A shame it will mean his death_.

“We don’t need those other sellswords,” Prendahl growled, glancing at a smirking Valarr. “We are worth more than them and more than this so-called legion of yours. The Stormcrows stand beside the stalwart men of Yunkai.”

“Boy whores with spears,” Valarr mocked. “Not very long ones from what I saw. Not that I think you care. All you Ghiscari need is a shaved dog and a bottle of olive oil.” Prendahl had reddened, his entire body shaking.

“But it can be different,” Dany continued, giving a stern look to their sellsword commander, “once the battle is joined, you will not be given mercy and you will be killed on the spot, unless you decide to join with us. You can keep the Yunkai gold and some more. Fighting for the so-called Wise Masters will mean your death.”

The Ghiscari spat on the ground. “I will not be lectured to by a women, and not one with a Valyrian spawn growing in her—”

“You dare insult my wife?” Aegon growled, springing up. “Crawl on the ground and beg for her forgiveness and mayhaps I won’t have you gutted on the spot.” For all that they said about controlling his emotions, he couldn’t then they had the nerve to insult Daenerys or his child. Without a word, the Unsullied and Legion looked ready to spring forward. Valarr had removed his sword from the sheath as did the knights.  

The sellsword captain glanced at the guards. “You promised safe conduct.”

“Did I? I can’t remember saying anything of the such to you. So I think you should apologise.”

Dany put a hand on Aegon’s arm yet it did little to calm the storm within him. “I’m sure my husband doesn’t mean it,” she said sharply, directed towards her blood. She turned to the sellswords and her voice softened. “I apologise on his behalf just as I’ll forgive you for your own offence. I will give you one more chance to consider your options. _Choose wisely_ , for I am a gracious princess.”

Once again the captain spat at the ground. “What you are is a whore who should be in a Lyseni pleasure house.”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “Perhaps I’ll take back my apology then. Are you freemen or slaves to be dictated to by this man?” She directed it towards the Tyroshi and the Qaartheen. “You say you’re all equal but it seems to me that only one speaks.”

“We are a company of freemen,” declared Sallor. “We won’t be dictated to by silver haired abominations. You started this path of destruction and it will end here.”

Ghezn nodded. “A company of freemen who share everything. Perhaps after the battle we all share you. You can feel an actual cock within you for once.”

Aegon was shacking, his hand going down to the dirk on his belt. A sharp glance from Jon Connington stopped him, just barely. He was more than eager to split the man’s neck from his shoulders. “Then you will experience death in the field.” No more words were said after that, the captains of the Stormcrows turned and walked away, the Tyroshi who had been silent bowed his head politely before trailing behind.

When they had finally gone, Daenerys turned to where the knights were standing. “When the battle is joined, I want them killed first. _Painfully_.”

Two hours later the representative from the Second Sons arrived. A towering Braavosi who stared at them with pale green eyes and a thick red-gold beard which went down to his belt. He called himself Mero, but also titled himself as the Titans Bastard. _Large enough to be_ , Aegon thought.

He slapped his large hands together before being given their finest vintage. “You,” he spoke, glancing at Dany with a sinister grin. “I do believe I fucked someone like you once in a whore house.” He chortled. “Perhaps it was you, I wonder if that’s is mine in there.”

While Aegon clinched his fists which began to shake, Dany only smiled. “I don’t think so, otherwise I would have surely remembered one of your stature and _magnificence_.”

_These sellswords will burn, all of them. I will make sure of it_.

The sellsword laughed, spraying his wine. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “I jest. Few people forget Mero the Titan’s Bastard, I can tell you. But you wanted me here for my swords. What’s in it for me and my sons?”

“Coin and your survival. An easy deal if there is any.”

The giant of a man nodded and looked to be weighing his options. “You will be fighting against the might of Yunkai and the Second Sons.”

“And you’ll be fighting against the Stormcrows,” Connington said softly. “They will hand their swords over to us.”

The sellsword commander shrugged his shoulders. “Just more spoils for me and my brothers.”

“How are you going to beat us?” Daenerys questioned as she readjusted herself in her seat. “Five hundred horses against another, with Unsullied more then twice the number. Those odds don’t seem fair to me.”

“We’ve faced worse odds and won.”

“Worse odds and run,” Aegon replied sharply. “From my knowledge, you are nothing but cowards who take coin and run off at first opportunity. Why should this be the exception?” _You fled against barbarian Dothraki who fell against Unsullied, how do you think you could win this?_

Any humour in the giants face turned as the Titan’s harsh gaze fell on Aegon who besides feeling a slight shiver go down his spine, stood his ground. “I will not be insulted to by a pretty boy such as yourself.”

“Pretty? Well I thank you for the compliment, a shame I can’t say the same about you.”

The sellswords face went red. “I once had a girl who was pretty once. But when she insulted me, I smashed her teeth out and broke every part of her face. She isn’t pretty anymore.”

“That shows your courage,” Dany replied harshly. “Beating a girl.” She turned to Ser Jorah. “When the battle is joined, kill this one and bring me his head. It may serve as a good warning for others.”

“Gladly, my princess.”

“Or perhaps that won’t be needed. You could just run away, _or_ you can serve us. Either way, you can keep your Yunkai coin. But siding with us will give you so much more after the battle. After all, we have much and your little cluster of men seem as poor as the beggars who had littered Astapor’s streets.”

The Braavosi tugged at his beard. “Perhaps I may consider the coin. If I do, I demand triple, oh and some wine to wash it down with. After all, my men get thirsty easily.”

“I understand why. I can give you a dozen casts. From the cellars of the Good Masters of Astapor. Their finest vintage.” Valarr smirked at that. “All a token of good faith, may this help you come to the right decision.”

“Good. For the Titan’s Bastard has many brothers.”

“Then drink your fill, as long as it’s to me and Aegons health.”

“Done and done. Three toasts we shall drink to you and we’ll bring you the answer when the sun rises.”

When the Titans Bastard had gone – following Valarr – Jorah turned to both of them. “Dealing with the Second Sons can be considered unwise. While they have honour in their history, under Mero they have an evil reputation, all across the world. He’ll drink three toasts today and rape you on the morrow before tearing the child from your belly. Under him, the company has near as bad a reputation as the Brave Companions. He is as much a threat to his employees as his enemies, enough for the Free Cities to refuse his service. Only word hasn’t got to Slaver’s Bay.”

“Good. Then I’ll keep a clear conscious,” Aegon replied before frowning. The prince was looking forward to face both of the companies in the field and crushing them both. 

“Following Valarr may have been unwise as well,” the knight of Bear Island continued. “He is just as ruthless and greedy as any other sellsword. If not more so.”

“We need some ruthlessness,” Jon Connington countered. “He has a cunning which has and will likely continue to serve us well. Westeros, or the Yunkai’i aren’t going to give us what we want just because we asked politely.”

Aegon stood up, with Dany still with the cream dragon curled up beside her. “As much as I don’t like it, it may be needed. If neither company accept our demands, the battle will be inevitable, unless we convince the Yunkai’i.” 

They approached the camp when the sun was beginning to set. A convoy of fifty men rode atop magnificent horses, followed by a hundred slaves carrying chests and harpy standards. The lancers wore helms as tall as their heads, as to not crush the ludicrous shapes of their oiled hair.

The emissary was a man on a white camel, presenting himself as Grazdan mo Eraz: lean and hard, with a calculating smile which hid his thoughts. His hair was even stranger than most Aegon had seen, it was oiled and jutted from his brow like a unicorn’s horn. His tokar was bright blue and yellow, fringed in golden myrish lace. Grazdan didn’t waste time. “Glorious and ancient is Yunkai, the beautiful daughter of the most magnificent of cities. Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our people completely without fear. The blood of ancient Ghis flow through our veins, the blood of Grazdan the Great and his descendants. Our empire was vast and ancient when the Valyrian’s were still living in caves. We were founding monuments which touched the sky and art which brought tears to the eyes of all civilised men when the Valyrian just discovered fire in their caves. You were wise to come and seek an audience, the both of you, for neither of you will find easy conquest here.”

Aegon smirked. All of the envoy’s words rang hollow. _He praises the old empire of Ghiscar, yet the empire lost all its wars against the Freehold_. “Let’s hope that is the case. For I need some practise in the art of war. Those Unsullied standing out there are rumoured to be without equal, so I should test them out to see if it is true.”

The Ghiscari’s face tightened as if he smelled something foul. “If that is what you say, blood shall flow. _Your blood_. We have heard of the crimes you committed at Astapor. The looting, the butchering. You stole our kin’s property and gave it . . . to the vermin which now soil it with their presence. You stole the Unsullied from Kraznys mo Nakloz and the other Good Masters, our blood and kin. When we are done with you, the Unsullied who survive shall be enslaved again, to go to new masters, after we liberate Astapor from the rabble. We shall make slaves of both of you as well,” he glanced at Daenerys and then to her belly. “Many people will pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen. He _may_ be worth something.” Turning back to her belly, he said, “The spawn meanwhile can be raised up to learn the seven sighs and seats of pleasure.”

Daenerys face was like stone. Aegon cursed him under his breath. _That is my child you speak of. I’ll rip your tongue out for this_. It took all his willpower to not throw himself at the man. “I’m guessing you don’t know who I am,” he said through clinched teeth.

The slavers nose twitched. “No, I don’t. Some son of Lys? Regardless, you are a barbarian. A mere ant to be crushed beneath my sandals when I so desire.”

“It would suit you to speak to me as worth my station. I’m Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name. Rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Now you know who I am.”

The man just looked puzzled, but didn’t speak of it any further. Grazdan continued with his little speech, “We speak so harshly to each other. While it is true you committed savageries in Astapor, we in Yunkai are a forgiving people, _and_ a generous people. Why waste your strength by attempting to fight us and risk certain defeat when you should be saving your strength for Westeros? Yunkai wishes you luck in that endeavour. As such, the Wise Masters wish to grant a gift to the silver couple.” He clapped his hand together and four slaves came forward, bearing a large chest of cedar wood bound in gold and bronze. “Gold which is freely given is always better then one of blood, don’t you think?”

The slaves opened the lid to reveal the chest was filled to the brim with gold coins. Daenerys grinned, taking a handful and watching it flow out of her fingers like water. Newly minted, with the stepped pyramid on one side and the harpy of Ghis on the other. “How much is this?”

“Fifty thousand golden marks. All yours, we just ask you take it and leave us to our own affairs in peace.” 

Connington scoffed. “Very pretty, but I question how much you have inside the walls you praise so much.”

Grazdan flinched. “None for you, savage. Those walls will hold back any storm. Not that it matters, you won’t get that far.”

Dany smiled. “We both thank you for the gift, it was a pleasant surprise.” The Ghiscari smiled in return, like he could taste victory. “We also have a gift for you.” She took another handful and let run down her fingers. “Your life.”

“My life?”

“You heard,” Ser Jorah said sharply.

“Your life,” Dany continued, keeping her smile. “We don’t seek to stop our advance, after all. This just won’t do. It was a nice start but not enough. A few coins won’t do, no matter how pretty and shiny they are. Your city is much richer then this and you have slaves which need to be freed.” She then frowned. “Yunkai will be pillaged for all it’s worth, we will take your fleet and free the people who unwillingly serve you. What say you?”

“I say, you are mad.”

“Mad am I? Perhaps you shouldn’t have threated a child in front of its mother. _Dracarys!_ ”

The dragons answered immediately. All three rose their heads and lunging forward. Vhagar snapped, Meraxes hissed and Balerion opened its maw and let out a stream of black and red flame. It touched the ends of the Wise Master’s tokar. The silk of the cloth instantly caught alight. Grazdan cursed in the horrid tongue of Yunkai, slapping at the fires as he stumbled clumsily around the tent, spilling the chest and its contents on the floor. Only Duck stopped the flames by throwing wine onto the flames.

“You swore me safe conduct,” he wailed looking at the blackened silk. The guards which had escorted him had their weapons out, but were outnumbered and surrounded.  

_Are all Ghiscari snivelling cowards?_ Aegon wondered after sniffing the air. “You soiled yourself. To risk no further embarrassment, I’d advise you leave.” When the Wise Master commanded the slaves to take back the gold, Aegon objected. “You offered us the gold as a gift, remember, for the silver couple.” He smirked. “It would be rude to offer one a gift only to take it back.”

Grazdan mo Eraz pointed a finger at both of them after taking a few steps back. “You shall rue this day in your arrogance, Targaryens. Do you think it is hard to kill those scaled demons? We shall fill the skies with arrows until we block out the sun.”

Aegon snickered. “It is hot, so it will be a decent change to fight in the shade.”

Dany smiled. “You think it is any harder to kill a slaver? You will do better if you just leave and head back to your army. Tell them that we will fight and you will lose.” Grazdan then turned and fled much to the laughter and taunts of the Legion outside.

It was a gloomy night as Aegon laid awake in bed – thinking about the battle on the morrow –beside Dany as the winds roared like an angry dragon outside. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. He was hot and uncomfortable, with the future battle weighed heavily on his mind. Aegon stood up and poured himself some wine. He wondered if Rhaegar felt troubled before his battle. A part of him doubted it. _You only showed up in the end war after fucking your whore, father. The ever noble man you were_. He drank heavy after that. The wine did its job, letting the prince fall into a heavy slumber.

“My prince,” came a voice. Aegon didn’t wake up immediately, his body still asleep as purple eyes flickered. Jon ran up, his plate and mail rattling. “Aegon,” he called, shaking the lad awake. The prince slapped his foster-fathers hand away and demanded what it was, a sharp pain filled his head. “You’ve been drinking,” Connington said with shock in his thick voice.

“I had trouble sleeping,” the prince said rubbing his eyes. _Thoughts of my father have a tendency to cause that._ He saw that it was still dark. “Why—”

“No . . . this can’t do.” Jon shook his head. “It’s not important at the moment. There has been a spy.”

“A spy,” Dany said, waking up instantly upon hearing it. “W-where is he? How did he get in?”

“In the command tent. The Unsullied found him trying to sneak in. The Tyroshi captain from the Stormcrows. The fool with the blue hair. He carried two bags, claiming to have brought you both gifts.”

_If it is something to deal with the headache, fine_. “Take me to him.” Aegon forced himself up from the feather bed and dressed in a studded doublet and black breeches. He ordered that Dany remain in the tent and ordered more guards for her protection. _If one can get through, what’s the likelihood of more?_ The camp was chaotic, Unsullied were rushing around to reinforce the perimeter and ten stood around the tent. They all stepped to the side and Aegon saw the Tyroshi standing still, spears all pointing at him.

The captain smiled, golden teeth gleaming in his mouth. “My prince,” he called, his accent was thick and there was almost a mocking in his voice. “I bring gifts and good tidings to you and your sweet wife.” He was holding two damp sacks. “The Stormcrows are yours, as am I, Daario Naharis.”

“What?” _If this is a ploy, I’ll have you right now._ A ploy to save his head, Aegon was sure. “What proof do you have of this?” He didn’t trust the man, there was something about the sellsword which seemed off.

The mercenary just kept smiling. He upended the bags, letting two heads roll out. The heads of his fellow captains. “My gift to you and that lovely wife of yours.”

Aegon glanced at Connington who seemed to be having similar thoughts. “Why? Why did you do this?”

The sellsword shrugged. “Gold and not to risk the dragons fire. I couldn’t find a reason to fight for the losing side, unlike my former friends. Prendahl said words which meant nothing and Sallor spent all his time with half his hand wedged up his nose. The Yunkai army will break and flee the battle, leaving both us and the Second Sons to fight off an army of reputed spearmen. Not worth it to fight and die, but to switch sides and live, with the chance of further profit. That is something which interests Daario Naharis.”

“At least you have more wits then your _former_ companions.”

That was when Valarr walked in, flanked by two of his men. He immediately stopped and his mouth dropped. “What’s this freak doing here?”

“He switched sides, apparently.” _A sellsword only switches sides to the winner_. Valarr glanced at the two heads which had rolled onto the floor. “As well as having removed two of our opponents.” _We should thank him for that at_ least. Although Aegon wanted to kill the Ghiscari sellsword himself.

Daario was grinning from ear to ear when abruptly went onto his knees. “I, Daario Naharis, submit myself to you, me and my five hundred men and horses. To prove my skill, I could tell the tale of my exploits and give you the names of all the men I’ve slain, but when I finish those dragons of yours will grow to the size of mountains and the cities of Ghis will turn into dust. I’ll fight for you in this battle and for as long as gold switches from your hands to mine.” 

_Humility is not your thing, I can see. But I do need those horses._ He quickly glanced at Connington and Valarr. The knight didn’t look impressed, whilst the Lost Legion commander looked furious. Aegon guessed there were some bad blood between the two companies. “I accept your submission. Rise.” Aegon turned to the Unsullied. “Keep this one under guard. I’ll talk to him later.” The Unsullied pulled the man away.

“Do not trust this man, my prince. He betrayed his fellow commanders and presented you their heads. Do not think for a second that he won’t do the same to you,” warned Jon sternly.

“I don’t,” Aegon replied. _I can tell this man is both dangerous and unpredictable, a scary combination_. “We just need their mounted contingent for this battle and nothing else. Thirteen riders won’t be enough should they decide to outflank us. My lord, you were the one who said we needed cavalry on the field. They can serve as our cavalry.” _Untrustworthy ones which can turn back against us, but they’ll be needed. Regardless, I’m going to prepare if they don’t._

The battle started at first light.

Both sides formed up their lines, the terrain between the two armies was flat and dry. The perfect ground for the lockstep formations employed by both armies and the cavalry. Aegon was mounted atop a horse at the rear, alongside Duck and surrounded by the Lost Legion. He remembered back at the brief planning before the battle.  

“The Yunkai’s slaves are a disgrace to the name of warfare. Their soldiers can’t fight to save their lives and their commanders are a joke,” Valarr mocked, equipped in his black armour. Everyone were taking the battle seriously beside him.

Jon had shook his head. “But we lack archers and cavalry. Our army is entirely spearmen. Lightly armoured spearmen, I might add.”

The sellsword scoffed. “Our job isn’t to kill everyone, it’s to break their morale. Slaves won’t fight for their masters and the sellswords will flee once they see that their masters are fleeing with their tail between their legs. The militia will be more motivated but once their supporting flanks break, we can easily surround them. That’s if the Yunkai battle line doesn’t collapse once they meet our wall of spears.”

Valarr was right about a few things. The Yunkai infantry flanks were largely disorganised with their slave soldiers being rushed into position by officers with whips and shouts. At the rear were tokar clad nobles who sat atop sedan chairs and were being fanned as they drank, like they were watching games in a fighting pit rather than an actual battle. As with the plan, the Stormcrows were to rebel just before the two lines met. Aegon was disappointed that the Second Sons didn’t decide to turn traitor, but they didn’t look to be in the best of shape after their recent drinking.

It was Valarr who came up with the idea and made sure the wine was heavily fortified. The sellsword even went as far as to try and poison it but Aegon had staunchly refused. Poison was a weapon for women, cravens and eunuchs, utterly without honour. Valarr had reluctantly agreed, through his eyes didn’t. In a few ways, Aegon found the fortified wine itself dishonourable. _“Enough to sap them of their strength and any discipline they have,”_ the dragonseed claimed. Even though Aegon didn’t like it, he was coaxed by the sellsword as well as Jon and Jorah. _One battle_ , Aegon had told himself before agreeing. _These are slavers and sellswords, it’s not like they had honour to begin with_.

“Are you ready for your first battle?” Ser Duck asked. The knight was fully clad in heavy mail over a gambeson and his head was fully enclosed in a great helm – dented and worn. Not that Aegons own equipment was that different.

“By ready, do you mean having a sickness in the stomach?” _And a desire to withdraw_. He forced the thought out his head. _No, if I don’t have the will to fight these fools, then how am I going to regain my home?_

“Did you drink some of that wine?”

A few of the legionary cavalry laughed and Valarr said, “I certainly hope not. After all, it would be a tragedy if my greatest client suddenly fell from his horse.” It was a cruel smirk he showed.

Aegon shivered. “Don’t remind me of that.” Aegon did take a drink before leaving camp to help calm his nerves but he was sure it wasn’t the strongwine. _But if it is, that would be a cruel jest_.

With the sound of a hundred trumpets, both the Unsullied and Yunkai’i marched forward. The spearmen’s round shields overlapped each other. Six lines ranks they fought, their pikes under their arms and with the second and third and fourth rank supporting them. It was more a spear wall then a shield wall. The last two lines also had javelins at the ready, to ruin their enemy’s formation before they met with spears thrusting against spears. Valarr claimed that attacking from the front would be suicidal, both for the sellsword cavalry and the slave and citizen militia of Yunkai. However, Aegon had been warned of the more mobile sellswords easily going around the sides and attacking the flank and rear, where the lockstep formation was at its weakest. To counter this threat, there was a small force of Unsullied on reserve, as well as the far ends of the line being thickened to absorb more of the shock, equipped with the shorter spears to give them more flexibility.

The Unsullied made steady progress through the flat terrain. The Yunkai kept their promise, but it didn’t seem the bravado was true. They did fill the sky with arrows, but not enough to block the sun. The Targaryen line continued onward regardless, with the Unsullied raising their shields to resist the storm of arrows. Many arrows missed their mark, those which hit either deflected or broke against the domed shields. But the casualties mounted and those casualties disputed the tight formation.

Valarr chuckled. “Takes more than arrows to break a lockstep.” Aegon looked at the Yunkai commanders also watching the battle. They were more like spectators but runners were rushing up and down, likely taking commands. “But that cavalry on the other hand . . . that would prove especially dangerous if they are mounted bowmen.”

“Can you deal with them?”

The sellsword shook his head. “I have less than twelve men, none of them on proper warhorses. We’ll be slain if we dare pursue. So my prince should hope they run out of arrows soon. We don’t even have archers, but if we did, they will more than likely form a rotating circle and shoot. On flat terrain like this, cavalry archers are king.”

_But dragons will destroy them when they’re big enough_.

After a few more shots, the Yunkai stopped the rain of arrows. Then the Unsullied felt secure, they lowered their shields. The relief was short lived however. Lightly armoured figures rushed forward from the Yunkai lines: slingers and peltasts. The latter rushed in close and threw their spears and rushed away before the lesser ranged Unsullied could repay in kind. They looked like ants from Aegons position, but he saw the casualties they were inflicting. It may have slowed down a formation, but the Unsullied continued pressing forwards. He wondered how Ser Jorah and Ser Connington were doing. _May the warrior protect them_.

“They look worse than I ever expected,” Valarr snickered, his eyes were looking at the slave soldiers then to the Second Sons. “I’m surprised they can remain seated in the saddles. Just wait, my prince.”

The two lines eventually met. The Unsullied at the rear threw their javelins which disrupted the Yunkai lockstep before pushing forward like a battering ram with their long pikes and iron discipline. The two sides were pushing against each other with everything they had, with the screams and war cries of the Yunkai’i filling the air whilst the Unsullied fought in silence. In some ways, Aegon found that to be scarier.

The left flank showed the Second Sons wrapping around the Unsullied line. The cavalry archers and mounted skirmishers rode in first, firing their arrows or throwing javelins and darting away before the spearmen could mobilise to deal with the threat. In the chaos, the sellsword heavy cavalry charged in and cut the foot soldiers to pieces.  

On the other side were the Stormcrows who had smashed into the Yunkai wing just before the two lines met. Like the Second Sons, the Stormcrow’s light cavalry went first releasing arrows before letting the lancers break through the Yunkai line in a wedge formation like a spear piercing through flesh. As could be expected, the slavers line erupted into chaos.

Aegon desperately wanted to leave the safety of the hill and join in, too experience the battle like the stories of his childhood. But the prince knew he couldn’t. Jon wouldn’t allow it and had given strict orders to the guards to keep Aegon away from harm. _I should be fighting in the centre with my men. Inspiring them to victory instead of standing here and cowering like a child hiding behind their mothers skirts_. 

With the surprise betrayal, the Yunkai line broke. Slaves dropped down their spears and shields and rushed back to the camp, all the while the Stormcrows pursued. With half the line routing, the Unsullied curved their formation around and pressed against the citizen militia in the centre. Aegon was impressed by their resolve and how intensive they fought, but they routed all the same. Once the centre broke, it was clear to see that the battle turned against them and the left withdrew in disarray.

“So what now,” the prince asked as he held tightly on the reins of his horse. The Second Sons had more success in the battle even in their condition, but with their employees fleeing they seemed to have taken the hint and were falling back in good order. “Do we go after them?”

“Do you want to fight them again?” Valarr asked. Aegon shook his head. “Then best get the Stormcrows to pursue. The many highborn who are scurrying away can be ransomed, or executed. It’s your choice, but I’d advice the former. There is more money in it.”

“Ransom. I am not a murderer, I’m not Tywin Lannister.”

“As you wish, my prince,” Valarr replied before ordering half of his men to go to the Stormcrows and tell them to give chase.

_Turned out better than I expected_ , Aegon thought before pressing the sides of his mount and galloping forward, even as his guards shouted for him to remain back. He had hid away, but he could at least help reconcile the men by showing himself. _I should be there, show that I’m a warrior as well_. Aegon was still a squire and a squire was expected to fight alongside his master.   

The dead and dying littered the blood soaked ground. Unsullied, Yunkai levies and slaves as well as sellswords. They formed a carpet from where the two sides finally met. Flies swarmed the air, covering the bodies in black and buzzing blankets as scavenger birds circled above. In their tongues, the Yunkai’i begged for aid, water, the gods or a quick mercy, but the Unsullied were unmoved by their plights and focused on taking care of their own wounded. The stench was horrifying, the smell of shit, piss and blood. It all made bile rise up from the back of Aegons throat and knots form in his stomach. _They never expected it. They never expected that sellswords to be treacherous. Wise Masters they are not._

Duck stopped his gallop and removed his helm. His horse was panting. Even though he didn’t fight, the man’s face was red and was covered with a scene of sweat. “You were under—”

“— orders to remain at the hill. I remember. I was told to wait for the battle to end.” _You need to be protected, my prince_ , Jon had said, _you are too important to fall in a battle like this. Perhaps in Westeros_. “But the battle has ended now, it would seem.”

The knight nodded, his gaze turning to the aftermath. “What shall we do with the bodies . . . and the injured, my prince?”

“Ours or the Yunkai’i?”

“Both . . .  either?” Rolly Ducksfield seemed distracted.

Aegon didn’t answer immediately, instead he surveyed the aftermath of the battle. The injured were carried off and those of the enemy were left to crawl away if they could, otherwise they’ll be food for the creatures of the wild. “We’ll bury our dead. The Unsullied are now free and they deserve all our respect for what they’ve done.”

“What about the Yunkai’i,” Valarr questioned as he fidgeted on his mount. His men had galloped off to liberate the corpses of their worldly processions. Not that they needed to rush, their only competitions were the Stormcrows who had stopped their pursuit and decided to raid the camp.  “What of their injured and prisoners?”

Aegon thought for a moment. “Their officers and nobles can be ransomed, of course. But the others . . . Yunkai, slave and sellsword, spare those willing to switch side. Some may have useful skills. But if not, they can get the sword but make it quick.” Jon wouldn’t like him having others following and would likely say that they can’t afford to have worthless mouths to feed. Daenerys wouldn’t forgive him for executing everyone. “Any slaves in their camp can be freed, any healers will be used to treat our own.”

The sellsword looked amused but galloped off, leaving Aegon with Duck. “Do you think I’ve made the right choice . . . letting them bend the knee?”

“I believe you did, my prince. This will be practise for Westeros. Expect many there to bend the knee to us. Both highborn and the low. Many here didn’t wish to fight and die because their masters saw it as a good idea to insult you and Daenerys. People will side with a king who shows mercy upon his foes, but also is fair with them. They’ll see you as a just and worthy ruler.”

“I certainly hope that is the case.” Aegon pressed the side of his horse and galloped off to find Jon Connington in the centre. The knight was kneeling down, his armour blooded and dented. “It looks like we’ve won, my lord.” Aegon turned to the corpses of Yunkai militia in their bronze and padded armour, each having spiked helms similar to the Unsullied. In front of them were the Unsullied who had fallen in their struggle. _I should have been here. I should have been leading it_. He had dreamt of it the night before, leading at the front of the Unsullied, slaying sellswords left and right. Beginning with the commanders of the Stormcrows and then the Titan of Braavos, ending with the killing of the crying Grazdan. _He said I was too young and inexperienced_. Aegon frowned as he remembered that. Daeron the Young Dragon was four-and-ten when he invaded Dorne, Aegon was two years older. _I’m to be the king of Westeros, I should have fought from the front, not hiding away like a women._ “My lord, may I ask what our casualties?”

Connington was cleaning his sword. “I’m not fully aware, my prince. But I’ve received reports from the flank that our casualties are a couple hundred already, and the numbers are still to be properly counted. Most I’d wager are from the left flank and many fell to the skirmishers.”

_The casualties didn’t seem that bad_ , Aegon thought. _Not against an army of five thousand_.

His foster-father continued, “But many have received injuries from the battle. Some will die of their wounds, while others will be maimed and won’t be able to fight from now on.”

“A tragic cost. See to it that they are treated as best as possible. The Unsullied fought for us, died for us. It’s only right we do our best to help them. We need much more men to march forward.” He looked to where his advisory had fled. _Astapor had fallen. Yunkai will be next_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a little longer then I originally expected. For a reason I cant point to, I'm not too happy with this one. I can say its not one of my stronger chapters.  
> Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it. Comments and Kudos are well appreciated like always as is constructive criticism, which is always helpful.


	13. Daenerys V

Yunkai rose from the shores of the bay like a puss filled boil. The city’s walls were high, built of yellow bricks and manned by slingers and crossbowmen. Behind the fortifications stood proud pyramids, each in competition of who could reach the sky first. Many of those buildings were graced by the harpies the Ghiscari were so proud of. This one with the wings of a bat, legs of an eagle and a scorpions tail; within its talons it grasped a whip and collar.

 _It doesn’t matter what it wields. They will all be melted down_ , Dany thought before looking up at the largest building in the city. The pyramid which was said to belong to Yezzan zo Qaggaz, with a bright golden harpy standing proudly on its peak. She wished Balerion or any of the other dragons were larger so they could fly over those walls and turn those harpies into molten slag. But that will have to wait.

The Targaryen princess looked down at the camp which had been set up in the shadow of the walls. Eight thousand Unsullied were in the encampment, expanding the defensive walls and digging ditches to protect against sorties. The tents were wide apart and orderly, just as she had come to expect from them. Those not working at improving the camp were either patrolling the perimeter or drilling with shields, spears and short swords. Their cavalry arm of their army were busy raiding the surrounding towns and estates for food and anything of value.

Daenerys cupped the swell of her belly, feeling the babe kick. It was only light, but she felt it all the same. Rhaegar or Rhaenys, she didn’t care. It was her child, her and Aegons. _Hopefully you’ll never know what it’s like to be an exile. When you’re old enough to understand, we’ll be in the Red Keep of King’s Landing, feasting on the delicacies of Westeros_. It was a regular dream for her, to sit and look down at the beautiful city that was King’s Landing, with her children surrounding her. _A home and family_.

“Your Grace,” Doreah spoke up, “It’s hot and the sun . . . you shouldn’t be out here.”

Daenerys heard her handmaiden but continued to stare. _Two hundred thousand slaves live there._ _Working bricks, pleasuring nobles with fat purses and killing or being killed for the entertainment of the crowd_. She turned to Doreah who had been a pleasure slave before Illyrio gave her to Daenerys as a handmaiden. She was always good to have around: gentle, dutiful and did all that was required of her. A slave when they entered the gates of Astapor and a freedwomen when they left, yet Doreah decided to stay as her handmaiden and would regularly tell Dany stories of the world, something the princess was thankful for. The tales were a pleasant to listen too, helping distract Dany from the boredom of the siege, where she lost count of the days which dragged on for eternity. “I should be here. This city stands in the way. The way of a fairer world. This is just a final look of it, before the walls and the pyramids crumble into dust.”

“Princess?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Daenerys softly replied after a moment, before following her handmaid inside the pavilion, where her dragons laid atop a pillow near the entrance; all curled around each other and basking in the sun. Meraxes woke up as she passed, lazily rising his head to look at her. In response Dany stroked him. The dragon rubbed against her palm, playfully biting at her fingers with the corner of his jaw. The black teeth were sharp but they never broke the skin in their little games. “Doreah, may you get the food.” Her Lyseni did as requested, bringing out a copper bowl filled to the brim with chunks of meat. Dany grabbed a large piece which was slimy in her hands before throwing it to the ground. Within an eye blink, Meraxes rushed up, unleashed a gust of his flame before swallowing it in a similar manner as a snake. The smell of roasted meat soon stirred Balerion and Vhagar who hurried to the darkened patch. All stared at Dany, calling in high pitched cries. She laughed before feeding the other two.

“Do you know how long before you can ride them, princess?”

Daenerys didn’t know exactly. She had read from a book somewhere that Targaryens rode them after around two years, but it wasn’t exact. “I was told they grow faster out in the open, not in confined spaces. So I plan to let them be free when they’re older.” _Away from cities filled with archers_. “But hopefully soon.” She threw another piece and the dragons fought over it with the flapping of wings and snapping of jaws.  

After a boring period, she called in Ser Jorah who brought with him the thick earthy smells of sweat and horse which contrasted to the thick perfumes of the tent. “Princess,” he bowed his head. “You desired to see me?”

“I did,” Daenerys replied, sitting up from her reclining position – disrupting the green dragon who decided to curl up beside her. It released a hiss. Reclining wasn’t a regal position Dany knew, but it was the most comfortable. “Please, ser, take a seat.” The knight did so and Dany asked for Missandei to fetch them refreshments. “Ser Jorah, you fought at the Trident, did you not?” Her voice was flat.

He knight looked uneasy for a brief moment. “I did, my princess. Under the banner of Lord Stark.” He frowned at that word in a similar manner Aegon or Jon did at the words Baratheon or Lannister.

“You seem to hate this Lord Stark?”

He nodded tensely. “Aye, I do. He took all I had and loved. All because I sold some poachers to some Tyroshi slavers instead of sending them to the Nights Watch.” He shook his head. “Exiled because I stained his precious honour.” From his tone, Dany could see how much it pained him. “But it’s the Trident you wanted to hear, isn’t it?”

“Rhaegar was my brother . . . the brother I never knew.” She regularly asked Jon Connington about the prince of Dragonstone, they were friends and Griff always spoke of her brother fondly. Friends, but they weren't as close as Rhaegar was to Ser Arthur Dayne. Whenever Jon mentioned the Sword of the Morning, he always sounded jealous. “I-I want to at least know what happened . . . everything.”

Jorah nodded before reluctantly explaining the clash. “After the Battle of the Bells, Robert had announced his claim to the Iron Throne from his grandmother. Behind him stood the combined armies of the Vale, North and Riverlands, as well as the small remaining group from the Stormlands. They were the few loyalists, but many were fickle and switched sides to the King when they lost. Your brother, Prince Rhaegar brought around forty thousand men to the Trident as he was matching up to meet Robert with men from the Reach, Crownlands, Dorne as well as a loyalist houses from the Riverlands and Stormlands, like House Connington and House Darry. Both sides met at a river which is now called Ruby Ford. I was leading my men from Bear Island. They were fierce during that battle. I fought on the left flank, fighting to hold off the Dornish who were threatening to surround us, led by Dorans uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell. The fighting was fierce, the Dornish with their pikes and hiding behind their wall of shields, all whilst arrows filled the air, as did the screams of the dead and crying.” The old man’s face was clinched. “I almost died to a Dornish youth with a curved sword.” He shook his head. “Saved by my household guard who tried to carry me away. But I allowed none of it and charged straight back in. It was Ser Lyn Corbray who pushed the Dornish back. After his father was wounded, he grabbed Lady Forlon and charged the shield wall. He was the one who killed Prince Lewyn Martell after a long duel. He barely won, but only managed because the prince was injured.”

“What of my brother,” Daenerys asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as Vhagar nuzzled against her. The dragon brought her some comfort. She didn’t like hearing the story, especially from a man who served under the usurpers banner. But she needed to hear it and being a future queen meant hearing things she didn’t want to. “Were you there?”

“I’m sorry princess. But I wasn’t there when it happened. But I know that Robert and Rhaegar both fought on horseback. Your brother charged through the river, meeting Robert Baratheon who was leading the knights of the Vale in the centre. Both were easily distinguishable. Robert in his full plate and great helm with antlers, and Rhaegar with his black plate with the Targaryen sigil in rubies on his chest. Sword verses warhammer, but you know who lost.”

“Rhaegar . . . how? I was told he was a gifted swordsmen . . . and he won the tourney of Harrenhal.” Jon said that Rhaegar beat everyone in the training yard and battled so gracefully it looked like a dance.

“He did indeed win the tourney, my princess, and I heard he was indeed a talented swordsmen. But unhorsing someone doesn’t mean you can beat them in the chaos of a battle. Rhaegar won many tourneys, but Robert won the melees.” Dany was saddened by that. “Your brother didn’t have a warrior’s heart, from what I was told of him, he was a poet . . .  a musician and a scholar. But Robert, he was a warrior through and through. A giant of a man in his plate and wielding his hammer which he used to smash men without slowing down in the slightest. Robert loved battle and women and drink more than anything else in the world, and was hot-tempered, aye, always letting his emotions get the better of him. He hated Rhaegar with a passion and would have fought through all the seven hells to find him.”

Dany bobbed her head. She had been told of the reason for it. When she was little she thought it as romantic. Her brother fighting for the women he loved . . . and died for. “But why? Why did my brother go with this Lyanna Stark? Making her the queen of Love and Beauty. He was married . . . to a Dornish princess who was there in the tourney, yet my brother gave it to the Stark girl? Why did he do that?” Jon wouldn’t tell her or Aegon, like the knight of Griffins didn’t know himself.  

Jorah shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can’t say I know, my princess. I wasn’t as close to Prince Rhaegar as much as lord Connington, but I know it was a political marriage and not one of love. I did have the good fortune to have met Lady Lyanna once when I visited Winterfell alongside my sire. Lord Rickard Stark claimed she had the wolf’s blood within her and as fierce as her oldest brother. She was young when I saw her, all skin and bones and looked like she had just walked in from the stables . . . a talented rider I heard. But I’ll admit I know little else.”

Connington had said that Princess Elia was barren after the birth of Aegon. The thought saddened her. _Was she fair enough to throw his life away for?_   “Thank you, Ser Jorah. Thank you for the words.”

“It was a pleasure, princess.”

They talked more, about Westeros and what he’d done in Essos, even about his second wife. All the while they nibbled on cheeses and fruits and cakes. Just before he left, she asked him one more thing. “Could me and Aegon truly conquer the Seven Kingdoms?”

That seemed to take the knight by surprise. He looked deep in thought. “You have the Unsullied and the Lost Legion are swearing you their swords, even if only twelve of the twenty remain. But magister Illyrio does claim to have hired the Golden Company to your cause . . . I don’t how. The Company are staunch Blackfyre supporters. Must have thrown a lot of gold their way . . . if—”

“But the Blackfyres are all dead,” Daenerys interjected. “Since the death of Maelys the Monstrous at the Stepstones. That means the Golden Company have no one to turn too to take them back home.” _And Connington said he joined it and that a few other Targaryen supporters did as well. If they want to go home, they need to follow us._

“That may be so, princess.” His face grew thoughtful. “The Unsullied are disciplined soldiers and are well organised, as is the Golden Company. I can’t say the same about the Lost Legion if just because I don’t know as much about them. But if those forces unite, you have a fair chance. More so if Dorne decides to aid you.”

“Of course they will,” Dany rushed out. “Aegon is Princess Elia’s son. Doran will fight for his nephew’s right.”

“That’s if Prince Doran Martell believes him. Aegon could just be a pretender for all they know. A false dragon.”

Dany quickly shook her head. “He isn’t. _He can’t_.” She was just thankful her nephew wasn’t in the camp to hear that. “He’s real.” _Your tongue could be removed for those words_. If Griff heard, it would be certain.

The knight bowed his head and apologised. “But the Dornish won’t know that. All they know of Aegon is that he had his head smashed—”

“ _Another_. He was switched _.” The lost prince who’ll return and fight to get back his family’s throne. With me beside him_. When she was younger, Dany loved those stories just like she loved the ones with handsome knight’s rescuing fair maidens.

The knight bowed his head. “I apologise for my words and if they upset you. But I warn you that they won’t know.” She curtly dismissed him.

Dany leaned back and looked at the dragons who were at her playing. _Aegon's true_. She hugged herself, the gesture providing a little bit of comfort from the story. Robert the usurper was dead, killed by a boar she was told. But his family still soiled her family’s throne. _I’ll kill them_ , she thought. _With fire and blood, we’ll take back what is ours_. She glanced at her dragons. _You will help us do it, just like Aegon the Conqueror_. She turned to both her handmaids and commanded them to fill her bath. The water was scalding hot – just as Dany liked it – with the steam rising up from the milky water and was filled with sweet smelling substances which were said to relax the body. “They are coming back tomorrow,” she said absentmindedly as the Naathi girl washed her hair and softly sang the songs of Naath. “The Stormcrows.”

Valarr had been more then adamant that other sellswords wouldn’t be needed and that his men were enough. But Griff had refused his wishes and kept the Stormcrows to serve as the cavalry, where they would raid and scout. Dany didn’t like their new captain, a Myrish sellsword by the name of Gyloro Mercor. A giant of a man who towered above her, his arms as thick as trees and an ugly face decorated by scars of battle. Dany much preferred the other one, the Tyroshi called Daario. He was handsome and graceful, with an easy smile and a courtier’s tongue. Even though all the dye and his clothes looked strange, he at least didn’t terrify her the same as the new captain. A shame Daario had fallen off his horse during the end of the battle. The only thing which have her relief was the fact that Aegon refused to use Gyloro or his band outside Slaver’s Bay.

“This one doesn’t like them . . . they remind this one of the slavers.”

“I don’t like them either,” the princess replied, feeling herself sink deeper into the water which tickled her chin. Dany let out a content sigh, warm water had a tendency to make her drowsy. She would have preferred the sellswords scouting if it wasn’t for their tendency to loot and rape and murder villages. “But they are needed for now.” _When we take the city by storm, they can go first_. 

It was getting dark when Daenerys called Septa Lemore to her tent. The servant of the faith was in her septa robes, with the crystal on a lace around her neck. “You wish to see me, Princess Daenerys?”

“I do,” Dany replied smiling. She closed the book titled _Dragonkin_. The three dragons were sleeping in the corner and she wondered if they’ll be enough to bring back the species. After all, the source of Targaryen power came from these creatures. After they died out due to the mistakes of her ancestors, House Targaryen gradually weakened in power and prestige. “Please take a seat, Septa. I have something I wish to talk to you about.”

Septa Lemore bowed her head before gracefully sitting down. “What is it you require princess? Dany turned to her belly, the swell was only getting bigger and more cumbersome. The Septa smiled in an almost motherly way. “You want to know about the birth, don’t you?”

Daenerys nodded, looking back down. “I only ask you because . . . I remember you saying once that you had a child.” The reason she decided to go to the sept was to pay for past actions, Lemore had explained after Dany asked about the stretchmarks when the Septa was bathing in the Rhoyne.

Lemore looked sad upon the mentioning. “I never had a child. I gave birth but never had a child.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, child. You have done nothing wrong, but I thank you for the words.” The Septa sat up, her hands clinching her thighs. “But you asked me what it was like, I won’t spare any words to make it seem more romantic when it is. It will be bloody, it will be painful and you will drench your bedding in sweat. You’ll be screaming so much and so loudly.”

“You could have told me that before,” Dany said with a frown.

Septa Lemore laughed. “But it will be forgotten once you’re holding your child, I can assure you. I screamed for a day and a night, but it was worth it when it all ended.” She looked like she was recalling it. “Bringing a little prince or princess into the world. Silver hair and purple eyes, your child will be beautiful, Daenerys.”

Dany looked down, rubbing her tummy. “Septa Lemore, you never told me . . . about _him_. You never said you were married or—”

“I was never married.” Dany suddenly felt a fool for saying that. “But I loved him.”

“If you may . . . could you tell me about him?”

Lepta Lemore smiled a sad smile. “He was strong, fierce and handsome. Hot blooded and took whatever he wanted, regardless of the cost or what people thought. That was his fatal flaw, he got reckless and it brought him to ruin, as well as his family.” She forced a smile, even if her eyes didn’t. “But enough of a soiled Septa like myself.”

Dany looked down, not knowing what to say and do. She didn’t like seeing the septa upset, Lemore was always there for her when she felt down. In response, Daenerys took the septa’s hand which was coarse from work. “I’m sorry for you loss.” When the septa weakly nodded, Dany changed the subject. “Do you . . . do you how long?”

There was an awkward pause before Septa Lemore looked down at her belly, face contorted in thought. “A month or two . . . maybe less, I can’t say for certain.” 

Daenerys felt a cold chill. “Do you think I should leave Slaver’s Bay?” As much as she didn’t want to do it, her child was more important than these slaver cities. She didn’t want her child to born in the barren land, or even inside one of those monstrous pyramids which stretched to the sky.

“Leave Slaver’s Bay? I think you should. You and Aegon and your army. That was what you came here for, what you got. You should leave, use your fleet and sail back to Pentos. After the birth you should plan for Westeros.”

 _Go back to Pentos_. Dany was sure Illyrio would let her rest there. After all, he helped them all their lives. A trusted ally, but one who would obviously want a reward when it was done. _It will be better. He will have servants who will know what to do_. “You speak wisely Septa, but . . . we can’t leave Slavers Bay. You’ve seen what they did at Astapor, I cannot allow that to continue to happen.” _I should leave, but Aegon can continue here. The dragons will need to get bigger and there are riches still filling the pyramids_.

When Dany relayed her thoughts, Septa Lemore shook her head. “You shouldn’t separate, the last Targaryen’s should stay together. Besides, Aegon won’t leave you, especially when you’re carrying his child.”

Dany thought about that. She knew how to make Aegon play to her tunes since they was young. It was never hard, her nephew always took it upon himself to be her protector and hated seeing her upset. A few tears and making herself look vulnerable was always enough. But it also make him unwilling to separate from her long. The only reason he did leave was to raid the surrounding settlement because he had grown impatient with the siege. “I suppose you’re right.” _Unless I could convince him._ _Valarr is close to him_. As much as she didn’t like the sellsword commander, he was intelligent and did have a never-ending lust for gold, something Dany believed she could exploit.

It was early morning a few days later when Aegon returned at the front of a column of sellswords. He smiled when he saw her waiting outside their tent and dismounted his horse. His blond hair was matted and his face was coated with dirt and sweat; his armour and leathers were bloodied and dented from hard use. Yet his smile cut through it all.

When he got close, Daenerys wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him close. “I’m glad you’re back.” _Longer then I would’ve wanted_. Aegon returned the hug, the gloves on his hands were harsh leather and rough against her neck, his forehead rested against hers. “How was the—”

“Not as thrilling as I hoped,” Aegon said, pulling his face away and she looked into eyes which were darker then Viserys’ had been. “Griff’s too protective.” Her nephew rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“He got a wound from a slave soldier during a raid on an estate,” Lord Connington interjected as he dismounted his horse. “Lad, best go and find Haldon. Make sure it’s not infected.” 

“Barely,” Aegon scoffed before flicking some hair out his eyes before removing his gloves. “Not even a scratch.”

“A scratch is still a wound. One which can fester and worsen. Many good men have died in such a way.”

Her husband groaned. “Fine then, after I’ve cleaned and relaxed some. It’s been a long ride.” Aegon turned back to Dany and covered her hands with his. His voice softened. “How are you? Are you well, how is our child?” He looked at her with eyes one could expect of a puppy, all full of concern.

 _He acts so concerned_. She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Healthy, a few kicks. It's a dragon after all.” Aegon looked down at her swell, suddenly looking nervous. “It’ll be fine. I’m not some fragile flower, I am a dragon.” Haldon did have some concerns that she was too small and skinny for pregnancy and she was anxious, but Daenerys couldn’t let it show.

“We both are,” he replied with a relieved smile. She returned the gesture and led him inside their tent. Aegon didn’t waste time to wash the grime off his face, flicking his wet hair back, droplets of water running down his fine features. Maybe it was because she hadn’t see him for a few days, but he looked more beautiful now. Aegon stripped out of his armour and the padded clothing underneath. He indeed showed signs of battle, but she took the opportunity to admire his leanly muscular form.

Her nephew cocked an eyebrow. His eyes glittering. “May I ask what you’re looking at wife?”

Dany focused her attention on a large scar which went across his side. “Is that it?”

“The wound?” Aegon let out a soft laugh. “Only one of many. Griff acts too concerned. Many people are covered from head to toe in scars, much worse than this.”

“Still, you should go and see him.” Dany wasn’t stupid, she knew that even a small wound could fester without proper treatment. Halfmaester once told her when he was in the Golden Company he treated a man with an only a small cut on his finger, it festered then it spread. The man had to have his finger amputated, then his hand and then his arm, by that time it was too late.

Aegon rolled his eyes and she felt an urge to hit him. “Sometimes you all act the same . . . but fine. I’ll do so, just for you.” He put on a white linen tunic and turned to meet her gaze. “I’m sure you can tell me what has been going on here when we were gone.”

Not much happened, mostly waiting. The Unsullied were busy fortifying the camp and building siege engines to take the city, with their makeshift fleet barricading the port. Shortly after Aegon had left, the Yunkai returned to try to get them to leave, perhaps thinking a women would be empathetic to their plight. They promised to pay double, as well as provide ships to escort them and their army to Volantis, even going so far as to free the slaves. Daenerys had refused their offer and demanded they open the gates and let them enter else the city will be taken by storm. They refused and the Yunkai’i returned to their city empty handed. Daenerys didn’t want to tell Aegon that. _If they wanted to compromise, they shouldn’t have insulted the dragon_. Dany showed a soft smile and said nothing happened. He accepted without question and kissed her on the forehead. _I’ll tell him later_.

When the message came, Jon was infuriated with the news as they stood in the command tent. It was a letter from Varys, detailing what had happened within the Seven Kingdoms. “This can’t be,” the exiled lord of Griffins Roast muttered, clinching the parchment. “The Usurpers have made a marriage alliance with House Tyrell. They decided to marry the boy-king with Margaery, Lord Mace Tyrell’s daughter.”

Haldon looked nervous. “So not only do we have to fight against House Lannister, we have to fight against the might of Highgarden as well?”

Valarr was the only one who didn’t look concerned. He was leaning on the table and fiddling with his golden earring. “That maybe so, but it still seems that rebels cover the ground as thick as autumn leaves. They may have the largest army, but they can’t be everywhere at once and they’ll be exhausted once we finally arrive. We can easily conqueror Westeros before Joffrey’s balls drop. Plus we’ve got dragons.”

“Small ones, barely hatchlings,” Jon replied, his face tightening. “They will grow larger and stronger, but they are still young and small. Anyone can kill them now. We have to delay for them to be useful. We wait for them to get bigger, then we invade.”

“My lord,” Haldon said. “In that time, the Lannister’s and the Tyrells can get stronger and destroy the North and Stannis before we even land on the shores. With their combined strength, as well as other houses, they can destroy us.”

“I count on the rebels to last a little longer. I don’t know about this Stark boy, but Stannis isn’t the kind to surrender. He is iron, he’ll break before he bends and he’s a talented commander. I assure you that he’ll last much longer.” 

“I can’t believe this,” Aegon said with disbelief, running his hand through his hair. “The Tyrells . . . why them? They were loyal to us during the war, why are they siding with the usurpers?”

“Because they’re all power-hungry, that’s why,” Jon answered, his voice barely containing his anger. “It seems Lord Tyrell wants his daughter to be queen.”

The prince’s nails dug into the wood of the table. “They are enemies of House Targaryen then. _Traitors_. I’ll destroy them.”

Lord Connington shook his head. “Give your enemies mercy if they ask for it, but crush those that refuse to submit. That is what I’ve taught you and you’ll do well to listen.” Aegon didn’t reply.

Valarr was scratching the black stubble on his chin. “But if this alliance holds up and this spider doesn’t undermine it in one way or another, we can still beat them, like we’re beating Ghiscar. It will just be harder.”

“You don’t say,” Haldon muttered. “But I believe there is a difference between hardened knights and fat pursed slavers with greasy hair who are armoured in arrogance and not steel.”

Daenerys didn’t know what to think of it. She was told that the Tyrells were Targaryen loyalists who fought under the dragon banner during the war of the usurper. _But things can change in fifteen years. They fell to their knees after the Trident, like many of our so-called allies. I will not let them get away with this_.

They discussed the matter further before Haldon sweetened the discussion with a message from Illyrio, saying how the Archon of Tyrosh has listened to their plight and was willing to offer them a fleet for their cause, for a price. They had enough coin from Astapor so it was a deal they accepted. Halfmaester was told to write a message and thank the Archon and the city.

When they finished with the news, Dany spoke of her plan to go to Pentos while the rest of their army remained in Slaver’s Bay to take Yunkai and Meereen. As she expected, Aegon didn’t agree with the idea and didn’t want to separate from her. The Lost Legion and Stormcrow commanders didn’t care as long as they were paid, neither wanting to stop the campaign. Connington while wanting the campaign to end, said how she would be safer from behind the manse walls.

“I can’t,” her nephew said, his voice almost a plea. “I mean . . . I should go with you. I need to be . . . you’re my wife, I need too.”

That made Daenerys remember that for nine years she and Aegon never separated, at least not for long. “We need to. Our campaign can’t end just because I have to birth our heir.” _We can’t leave these people as slaves._ She couldn’t. He looked at her, his face threatening a frown, but he just lowered his head and weakly agreed.

“I believe this is best, little princess,” the griffin lord replied. “I’ll organise a ship to take you to Pentos, with a century of Unsullied, as well as Septa Lemore and your handmaids. War is no place for women.”

“Duck can go with you,” Aegon quickly added. Jon scowled. “Besides you, he’s my most trusted friend. He’ll do well to protect you, Dany.”

She left the next day, boarding the Astapori warship known formerly as the _Harpy’s Grace,_  but renamed _Prince Daemon_. A large ship with three hundred oars, two towers and six scorpions. A powerful ship Jon Connington didn’t want to lose, but Aegon was adamant to see her to Pentos safely. Dany watched her nephew wave a goodbye at her as the ship began to sail off. Dany waved too. Both Meraxes and Vhagar flew above her, shrieking into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.
> 
> The slavers Bay storyline will last only one more chapter for those who don’t like it. After that, they'll look to Westeros.


	14. Jon Connington IV

At first light they assaulted the walls.

As they were supported by trebuchets and catapults bombarding the gates and towers, the Unsullied marched behind the cover of giant wooden tortoises and mantlets made from the hulls of a few of the vessels which had been ripped apart for wood. Their army was split into three groups, two attacking the main gates while another slipped in through a sally port whose guards got bribed to let them in.

The defenders put up quite the resistance even after the gates were smashed and the Unsullied swarmed inside the walls. The fighting in the streets was bloody. After his experiences in Stony Sept, Jon knew the dangers of urban combat. The twisting streets could easily cause an invader to get lost, where they would be picked apart by the defenders and the confined quarters would allow a small group of Yunkai’i to hold off against a larger force, all the while missiles had be shot down by those above.

The army suffered heavy casualties from both assaulting the walls and the bitter street fighting inside the city. If they weren’t Unsullied, Jon was sure they would have broke and run, but they kept up the attack even in the face of increasing losses. During the end of the battle, the Yunkai’i had to deal with a slave rebellion which flared up all around the city, ambushing the defenders and leading the Unsullied around the various barricades, both of which relieved the hand. 

As was expected, Aegon wanted to lead the assault, demanding it as he stood in his battered plate and mail just before the battle. Claiming it was his role as future king of Westeros to lead the men to victory. Jon had denied him. Aegon was young, and as reckless as one could expect a prince to be. His ward didn’t take being denied the glory well in the slightest and spent the battle sulking in his tent. _Still half a boy who thinks himself invincible._

Like at Astapor, the Unsullied were used to enforce a curfew as the pyramids were looted of everything of value which was was either brought to the ships at the port or moved to the camp. Connington was pleasantly surprised that they managed to get more than Astapor. It was richer city and their yields could be as expected but he was still surprised. _Fat and bloated with gold indeed. More than enough to buy all the sellswords and ships we need to reclaim Westeros_.

When Aegon had finally stopped brooding – which reminded Jon of his father – and looked at the loot, his face lit up. “The wealth of slavers will very much help our cause,” he had declared. “Ships and swords, but also hope. When we land in Westeros, we shall be supported by the wealth of the east. Enough to bring Westeros from the destruction of war and let us usher in a new golden age, with the Targaryen’s as the rightful rulers.”

It was later that day when Connington walked into the command tent as where Aegon and the other commanders were talking. “You wanted to see me, my prince?” Jon asked, bowing his head respectfully.

Aegon looked up, a proud look on his face. He was dressed in a tunic of black linen with a three headed dragon sewn with blood red thread. On his leather belt was his sword and dirk in new scabbards of fine leather. The prince’s hair was brushing his shoulders and his eyes were bright with confidence. “I did,” Aegon smirked and planted his dirk into the next city on the map. “Meereen. That is where we’re going next _and soon_. I want the city captured and immediately afterwards we head to Pentos. I seek not to remain here.”

“Does the army go to Pentos as well,” Valarr questioned as he stared down at the map. “Or should it join up with the Legion and Company who are here.” He pointed to an area near the Disputed Lands. A close enough location for the invasion and given the constant warring of the Three Daughters it should disguise the army’s true motives – making the sellswords in their employ look like they were involved in just another land dispute rather than a Westerosi invasion.

“Join with them. When I have my child, I plan to invade Westeros as soon as possible. They are bound to know who I am now and about the dragons.”

There were many stories, Jon heard. The slaves in Ghiscar saw both Daenerys and Aegon as liberators, almost like gods – but they were the flattering tales. Others said that both the last Targaryen’s were brutal sackers who attack cities to fill the dragon’s lust for gold and riches, or describing the both of them as oath breakers who attack envoys and betray guest rights. The news will travel fast and far, especially with mention of their dragons and soon the Iron Throne will know.

_Words are wind_ , Jon told himself. _Westeros will realise that when their rightful king and queen return_. “That may indeed be true, my prince.” Connington did wonder if Westeros will accept the truth of him being Aegon returned. _But with dragons, no one can dispute his claim, especially when he mounts one. The Seven Kingdoms will realise he is the dragon_.

“As you wish, your grace. Shall I send a message to them, detailing your wishes?”

Aegon nodded. “Once Meereen falls, we move west. We should make sure we have the Meereenese fleet in our service.”

Jon looked down at the map of Slaver’s Bay. From what it looked like, Meereen was next to a river situated on the north. That would give them a source of water for the siege. The exiled lord knew that Meereen would be better fortified then both Yunkai and Astapor, with larger walls and towers and with the citizenry being more prepared. “Meereen will be better defended then the others and they’ll likely hiring sellswords to aid in the defence. It may be wise to turn away and go home.” His ward didn’t like the sound of that.

Valarr smirked and leaned on the table. Jon didn’t like the look the sellsword displayed. “Hiring sellswords? That could open up an interesting opportunity.”

“How so?” Aegon questioned, still looking down at the map.

“They want defenders to aid them, hopefully inside the walls. Using a little deceit it can allow me and my men inside the city and . . . let’s say I open the gate during the night, perhaps I could release some of those famous pit fighters of theirs or I could just bribe some sellswords already within the walls.” The dragonseed eyes lit up. “That will scare them. The Meereenese are craven. They have as many balls as all the Unsullied put together.”

Connington shook his head. The Ghiscari weren’t that craven. Many areas of Yunkai resisted till their last breath. “What makes you think they will allow you in?”

Valarr chuckled. “Maybe some gold could water the guard’s mouths and maybe if I dress in something more fitting for a poorer sellsword. Perhaps Gyloro could lend me some of his?” The ugly commander of the Stormcrows nodded and Valarr turned to Aegon. “Do I have your permission, my prince?”

Aegon nodded. “Do as you must. I want the gates open when we arrive.” The sellsword captain showed that infuriating cocky smirk and left with the others. Then Aegon gave Jon a look. “Why do you want me to turn around, my lord?”

“Slavers Bay is unnecessary. We have enough gold to buy as many sellswords as we could ever need, we also have a fleet. Meereen might as well be left alone.” _Westeros is waiting for us_. Jon was tired of Essos. He missed Griffins Roast, the Stormlands, people who spoke the common tongue and the cool weather. He wanted to see Rhaegar’s son finally sit the Iron Throne.

“We have gold and ships, that much is true. But slaves still reside there and Dany wants them freed.”

“Slaves? Slavery is so entrenched here that they’ll continue it after we leave.” _Already it has turned the eyes of other slaving cities in this direction_. From what he had heard, the council that Daenerys had founded at Astapor had got overthrown. But with Daenerys gone, Aegon had little motivation in creating any form of government and instead just looted it for all its worth. “You have good intentions, but this isn’t your fight.”

“It isn’t,” Aegon agreed as he pulled the knife out the table. “More wealth will be needed and ships as well. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help some people in the process. What would people think if I took a slave army and invaded Westeros? But what if I free people from the shackles of slavery, how will I be viewed then?”

_I should have known it was just to get a name for yourself._ “They’ll see you as a liberator either way. I’ve heard of this young Baratheon.” _Or Lannister bastard depending on the tales_.

“If that is true. Those are stories from half a world away, as you said. I don’t see why I should still lower myself because of this self-declared King. Because of my father and King Aerys, the Targaryen name has been thrown into the dirt.”

Jon gritted his teeth. _How dare you insult your father. How dare you put my silver prince next to the mad king_. “Aegon, be careful with your words.” _You don’t understand what you say, boy_.

The prince’s entire face darkened. “Why should I? Me and Daenerys are cleaning up after the mistakes of our ancestors. The ones who put all of us in this situation.”

“Your father didn’t cause this.” _He believed you were a savour, the prince that was promised_. Jon Connington didn’t believe that, not until the three dragons hatched. That must have been what Rhaegar had been prophesying. _The three heads of the dragon. But who’s the other head?_

“ _He ran off with the Stark_. Either way you look at it, he caused the rebellion. Rhaegar had the perfect wife who loved him. He had children, _me and Rhaenys_ ,” he was almost screaming. “ _What was he doing when you were fighting? He was off fucking that harlot_.”

There was a loud smack.

The prince almost stumbled on a chair as he reeled back. His cheek was bright red and he stared up with some measure of fear but mostly surprise. Jon had never slapped Aegon before, he never needed to. When he was Young Griff, the prince was obedient on their travels. _He is a king now, all but in name. He has the power of one yet still acts the boy_. The lad never acted like it with Daenerys around, her presence always kept his temper in check. _What if she dies in childbirth?_ The thought made Jon’s stomach roll and he tried to force it out of his mind. She was heading to Pentos where Illyrio would have people who knew what to do. But of course the possibility was still there. _It may push the coin into madness_. _No. Aegon is not Aerys or any of the other bad kings. He is still young. Young and headstrong but not mad_.

“You struck me . . . _you_ struck me.” Aegon replied with shock, his voice trembling. After tense silence, he forced himself up, his face turning as red as the mark and Jon spotted the reflection of a tear in his eye. He looked away. “Leave.”

“Aegon,” Jon softly said, getting closer, immediately feeling regret. The lad was like a son to him, Rhaegar’s son. The boy he had hidden and raised for eleven years. Through both good and bad.

The lad took a step back, looking ready to cry. “ _Leave!_ ”

Jon bowed his head and left. He felt a sharp pain inside.

It was after weeks of riding when they finally reached the gates of Meereen. It was greater than the two other cities and was likewise built of bricks. But whilst Astapor was red and Yunkai was yellow, Meereen was made up of bricks of many differing colours. Her walls were larger and more formidable; lined with bastions and towers and swarming with archers. Towering far above the walls and deeper in the city was the Great Pyramid, a monstrous structure with the same infernal bronze harpy at its peak.

On their journey north, the Meereenese had tried to buy them off like the Yunkai’i, and had offered more and acted much more civil: gifting Aegon ships, gold and offered to soften slavery laws. _Perhaps they looked at Astapor and Yunkai and saw us as a genuine threat_ , Jon had thought as the emissary spoke. The Great Master couldn’t look more uneasy as he spoke to Aegon who had been sitting beside Balerion. The total amount of gold Meereen offered was a hundred thousand gold marks. As much as Jon wanted to accept the offer, the lad quickly snubbed his suggestion and demanded they press forward. The Meereenese didn’t take the refusal kindly, and in return they had burnt their fields, poisoned their wells and abandoned the outlying settlements all to weaken the Unsullied by attrition.

“So this is Meereen,” Aegon spoke as he stared up at the walls, his voice more formal then what Jon was used to.

_He is not Young Griff, he is a king._ The boy he had raised was acting more like his rightful station, the rightful king. Jon did find some pride in that, but sadness as well. “It is indeed, my prince. The harpy’s children hide behind her walls until we decide to leave or break against them.” Aegon would most likely want to crush them, Jon knew.

“Then they will break. I want a camp set up and siege engines made. We _need_ this city. We’re running low on supplies and they’ve collected their yields. Their granaries should be close to bursting.”

“And their treasury as well,” Gyloro Mercor said, almost drooling. “All their chests in the pyramids, all fat with gold and silver and gemstones. They love them gemstones, as do I.”

“And you will have them,” Aegon replied as he continued to stare. “But after Meereen is taken and looted I have no need for you.”

Ser Jorah spoke up, “We should look around the river. We may as well see if it’s possible to breach the walls by mining underneath. But that will require time.”

“Time we do not have. What about battering rams and other siege engines?”

“There isn’t any wood for leagues, my prince. The Meereenese have burnt every tree, leaving us without the wood for the engines we require. No trebuchets to smash the towers; no ladders, rams or turtles. So we’ll be dependent on the infiltrators opening the gates for us.”

“We need to make the illusion of storming it, at least.” Aegon turned to their fleet waiting near the shore. “We’ve got ships, use them for the wood. We did at Yunkai.”

“We shouldn’t, my prince,” Jon rushed out. “We need those ships for Westeros, to transport our army and the spoils.” _Leave Meereen to the Meereenese, save what remains of our soldiers for the Seven Kingdoms and remove the usurpers_. He forgot how many times he said that but the lad ignored his words every time.

Aegon shook his head. “More ships wait for us inside the city. If we lose one and get two in the process, we’ve gained more ships at the end of it. The city will indeed have more inside.” Aegons tone told of his unwilling to discontinue the siege or hear disagreement with his ideas. Knowing there was no way to argue with him now, Jon bowed his head and gave the order. A small trading ship was dragged to the shore and dissembled by the Unsullied while others set up the camp and dug ditches. The Stormcrows meanwhile were sent to scavenge the surrounding countryside.

It was five nights into the siege when the gates opened. Jon had been awake, sharpening his sword in his tent when he received the news. _Valarr you’ve done it, you bloody sellsword bastard_. He ordered the army to wake and storm the city now they had their opening. Jon and Jorah led the assault where they met little initial resistance besides the few archers posted atop the walls. But with the gates open and without the burning oil spilling on them, the Unsullied quickly took control of the walls. Jon soon saw that much of the city was alight. As the garrison hurried to push the invaders back, they were harassed by rebelling slaves who attacked with whatever they could get their hands on. The night had echoed with screams of fear and shouts of defiance.

As the sun rose, Jon looked down from the terrace of the Great Pyramid and stared at the destruction in the aftermath. Aegon only entered after they took the city, leading a century of Unsullied. Slaves lifting their hands, calling him and Daenerys liberators. Connington wondered how the princess would react if she was present. Valarr had stood at the gates, grinning from ear to ear. All morning he had bragged about how he’d freed the slaves and used them to create a diversion as he and his men took control and opened the gates. He hired a few sellswords for his operations but lost almost all his men in the process.  

With the three cities of Slaver’s Bay all falling to the dragon, they finally planned to leave Slaver’s Bay, using the Great Pyramid as a temporary base as they looted the riches of Meereen and awaited sellsails.

“What about Volantis,” Valarr asked without looking up from the map. “They’re heading here, with their _entire_ fleet.”

Jon had received word that the First Daughter of Valyria was looking east towards Slaver’s Bay. From what he had heard, the whole city was drunk on the prospects of slaves and wealth. Many claimed that Volantis had ideas to create a new empire caused by the destabilisation of their campaign. _Let them. Our way is west, not to remain here. They can have Slaver’s Bay if they desire_. Volantis had a naval fleet of around five hundred ships, they had eighty but only a handful were proper warships. The rest were trading galleys, cogs and any other seaworthy vessel that didn’t flee in time. “They will be coming here, but not to help us.”

Aegon sighed, tapping the corner of the table. “They seek to conquer and put the people back into slavery.” He looked perplexed, lost. “What shall we do? I’ve just freed them, only for them to go back into shackles.”

“You can’t save them, my prince.” _It was Daenerys’ wish, not yours. You got what you wanted and we lost more than half of our Unsullied for it_. “We can’t fight against the might of Volantis, let alone New Ghis which I’ve received word is attacking Astapor.”

“They’re not your people,” Valarr quickly added. It made Aegon frown. “You came here as a conqueror . . . more like as a pillager. You ransacked these cities of all the wealth they had and destabilised them. People are still fighting in the streets down below even with the curfew. You won’t be able to help them without causing more problems. Whilst the freeman see you as a liberator, the Ghiscari see you as an invader and plunderer. But any popularity you gained will soon fade. Freedom will soon taste foul when its food they seek.”

Aegon sighed. “Perhaps leaving is best . . . it feels wrong though.”

“A ruler must do as they must, not as they will,” Jon answered, putting a gentle hand on the lads shoulder. Aegon flinched but didn’t try to remove it as he expected. “You can help the people of Westeros, if you desire. Be the next Aegon the Unlikely, treat the smallfolk well if that’s what you prefer, but you must turn west and do it there.”

The lad nodded before standing up straight. “Send word to the Triarchs, tell them what we don’t want to interfere should they invade. As long as they let our fleet pass and let us resupply at Volantis.”

Valarr smirked cunningly. “I have friends there. _Powerful_ friends. They will do as you wish, as long as you water their mouths first.”

_Bribes_. Jon found that distasteful, but they were dealing with traders and the Old Blood of Volantis, not knights of Westeros. _Essosi have no honour_. “We should have enough gold and silver for that then. As long as they offer us safe passage.”

“By safe passage, you mean not attack us on sight,” Aegon growled. “So you know how long it will take the sellsails to get there?”

“Cossomo the Golden is in Volantis or should be,” Valarr muttered, his tone hinted he was unsure. “For the promise of gold, he’ll do anything. There was also Salladhor Saan, but he is helping Stannis Baratheon. If the weather is good, I believe Cossomo should take a few weeks or so.”

“Surely we can pay his Salladhor Saan to side with us,” Jon pondered. He had heard of the pirate, smuggler and sellsail. Self-declared _Prince of the Narrow Sea_. Two dozen galleys, he had from what Jon knew. “Ships will be important for retaking Westeros. Having a powerful navy is just as important as a powerful army, which will be needed to besiege the ports and King’s Landing, as well as Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone,” Aegon grumbled. “My ancestral home. Sixteen years it’s been soiled by the usurpers. I can’t wait to retake it.”

“Cossomo is our best chance. But knowing him, he’ll likely sail with the fleet from Volantis,” the Lost Legion captain quickly added. “He’ll also demand a sizable share.”

“We have plenty of gold, but not enough ships. Pay him for his services.” Aegon leaned on the table. “I don’t want to stay here any longer then we should. As soon as our ships arrive, we head to Pentos. Then Westeros.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.  
> I will admit this is among the weakest chapters I've written. But the slaver's Bay story line has ended and now they can go and deal with Westeros so the story should get more interesting.


	15. Daenerys VI

She smiled, feeling the warmth of the babe nursing against her breast.

_Rhaenys_ , Dany thought as she held her child, her princess. She was all Daenerys wished for. The little princess’s hair was silver-gold, her large eyes a light blue, Haldon explained they would turn purple as she got older and Dany wondered what kind of purple they’ll be. Dark indigo like Rhaegars, pale lilac like Viserys, or somewhere in-between. “You will never experience what your parents have done,” she said gently, hoping her daughter will never know the struggles both her parents would have to do to get the throne. 

The door creaked open slowly and Daenerys smiled as Septa Lemore and her two handmaids entered with light footsteps. “How is the little princess,” Septa Lemore spoke with a noticeably sadness in her voice.

“She’s healthy as ever.” That was the usual response after constantly asking Haldon. He claimed she acted too concerned. _Of course I’m concerned_ , she had thought. It was her daughter and heir, the most important thing in the world.

“That is good to know,” Doreah let out a soft laugh. “May my princess desire anything? Wine, food . . .”

“Sleep.” Even after a few days after the birth, Dany was still drained from the experience. Both Septa Lemore and Haldon claimed it was nothing to worry about. The fair haired handmaid gently took the now sleeping child and placed her in the crib. Dany soon regretted it and wanted to continue holding Rhaenys and rocking the little princess in her arms. She turned away from the crib. “What of Slaver’s Bay, what of my husband?”

Septa Lemore smiled in the motherly way she did. Dany remembered when she was little, Lemore acted as the closest she had to one. The Septa comforted her when Daenerys cried, read her stories, sang to her at night and stroked the princess’s hair when she thought Dany was sleeping. “Good news. Last night we’ve received word from Lord Connington. He and Aegon are on their way here. The Unsullied are going to join with the Legion in the Disputed Lands.”

“What of the Golden Company?” She didn’t trust the Golden Company as much as her host did. They were reputed Blackfyre supporters after all, and not big fans of the Targaryen’s, even if Jon Connington joined them and claimed that other Targaryen supporters joined them after Roberts Rebellion. She couldn't afford to let her worries get the better of her. Their army was greatly diminished from Slaver's Bay, Dany knew therefor they needed the Golden Company for Westeros.

“Magister Illyrio has promised to finance them, but they are waiting for you and Aegon. They desire to meet with you personally before choosing to be involved.”

Daenerys pouted. She knew she couldn’t expect sellswords to just follow, yet it annoyed her. “I’m sure they can be dealt with when Aegon arrives. He’ll like to hear it . . . do you know when he’s back?”

“We don’t know when, your grace.”

Dany nodded as she felt her eye go as heavy as lead. Daenerys was easily tired after the ordeal so she dismissed her handmaids and laid back into the feather bed. She almost drowned in the softness and dreamt when she was younger, when she still lived in the house with the red door with ill Ser Willem Darry and the servants who betrayed her and Viserys. Her big brother who told her stories of King’s Landing, like the Dragonpit or the Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep. He would say they would sail across the sea and take back the Iron Throne, to avenge their family and get vengeance on the houses who exiled them. Viserys was to sit the Iron Throne and Daenerys would sit beside him as his consort where she would watch him rule justly.

Just before they were kicked out, Daenerys had been hiding in the corner of her room as the servants ransacked the place, grabbing clothes and jewels and anything of value. Their knight and protector who had once terrified the servants died in his bed. In the chaos Viserys was trying to bag whatever he could, but Lotho backhanded him across the face. Selara, who Daenerys thought was a friend had pushed her away before grabbing a handful of Dany’s best clothes. Taela who used to clean for spiders webs and dust was shouting as Tycho the cook was stealing the silver ware.

All the while Dany was crying, her eyes too swollen with tears to see that her brother had grabbed her hand to lead her to the front door. His cheek had a red mark and in his hands was a sack which clanged as it moved. “We need to go,” Viserys ordered as he grabbed her tiny hand and tried to pull her out the door.

“W-we can’t . . . it-it’s unsafe,” she cried, her voice muffled and breaking. Dany’s feet refused to budge, like they was nailed to the floorboards. Daenerys remembered what he had said when she wanted to go to play with some children in the street. Viserys warned her that the usurpers dogs were lying in wait for them with sharp steel in hand. That was the first time he yelled, screaming in her face and making her feel so small. But it stopped Daenerys resisting. Viserys pulled at her waist, dragging her out the house and the heavy door slammed behind them.

“Princess?” Doreah awoke her master up from. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?” There was a look of concern in those blue eyes as Dany found herself wrapped around a firm pillow.

She quickly shook her head. “Y-yes . . . I’m fine. It was just a dream . . .  a nightmare.” A terrible one which kept returning. It was especially prevalent when she was younger and slept in the streets before they were taken in by Illyrio, but even after it still came. Many times Dany would sneak into Viserys’ bed to have someone beside her for comfort. When Viserys died, it was Septa Lemore and later her husband.

“Do you wish for me to get you anything? Some sweetsleep to help your slumber?”

Daenerys shook her head. “No thank you. It was just a dream.” _I should not avoid it, I’m a dragon. I shouldn’t be scared of the past_.

She recalled her brother’s words when they were on the street. Viserys had sat down on the road, looking ready to cry and she asked if they could go back. “We can’t Dany. We can never go back. We’re on our own. We’re alone, Dany. It’s just us. From now on, we have to fend for ourselves . . . don’t cry, you can’t. We are the blood of the dragon, the dragon doesn’t cry.”

The little girl in her had sniffed and Viserys rubbed the tears from her eyes. “I’m a dragon.”

“Of course you are. I will find a way to deal with this . . . I promise.”

_I am a dragon_.

The early morning sun was warm on her face as Daenerys walked through the magister’s garden. The high brick walls went up twelve feet high and the spear-like-spikes at the top coated the ground in formidable looking shadows. _Behind these walls are the usurpers and their knives_. She was sure they knew about her and Aegon now. After all, they couldn’t hide the dragons, especially when they flew above Pentos regularly. From what Illyrio had warned, the council of magisters were furious and wanted the creatures gone, but their host was in a powerful enough position to keep them from doing anything, at least for the moment.

Meraxes sensed her. The dragon was coiled around a tree, his angular head resting atop his tail. He opened its eyes, two pools of molten gold staring intensely. The horns were gold as well, as well as the thorns which ran down the neck to the tail. Dany smiled and knelt down, scratching the dragon under the jaw. “More lazy then your brothers, aren’t you.” His scales were warm, which she could have said were due to the sun if not for the saying. _Dragons are fire made flesh_. As if to prove it right, Meraxes let out white steam from his nose. “It is morning, shouldn’t you be hunting with your brother?” As Daenerys was busy waiting, she spent much time learning how to train her dragons. It was getting more important as they grew and got increasingly wild. They were smart creatures – very intelligent – but at the same time stubborn. Meraxes’s tail lashed to the side before he slowly rose up. Leathery wings unfolded, looking like a bats before he flew up after a powerful spring of his two legs. _He grows. They all do_. She wondered how big Balerion was; he was always the largest and the most hot-tempered. _Soon they will grow big enough to carry us_. Dany imagined it, flying in the sky like the dragonriders of old, watching as the massive cities turn small enough to blot out with her thumb; the flying and feeling the wind on her face and being able to see Westeros for the first time. The beautiful land Viserys told her about.

“Is your grace well,” came a voice from behind as Dany watched the dragon fly higher in circles.

“I am indeed, Arstan,” she replied with a soft giggle as she continued to stare at Meraxes. She loved the way the dragons moved; so elegant, so serpentine. Dany turned to face the aged squire. He was one of the oldest men she’d ever seem, with a flowing white beard and hair which went to his shoulders. He wore a traveller’s cloak of undyed wool and held a hardwood staff. Illyrio Mopatis had sent Arstan to serve as her protector for some reason. _An old squire from the Dornish Marshes who needs a stick to walk. Is this a cruel jest_ , she had initially thought. But he did have much to say and much of it intrigued Daenerys so she looked away from his physical capability. The aged squire had claimed to have travelled to Volantis to find her and Aegon, but when they disappeared to Slaver’s Bay, he had left for the Disputed Lands believing they were there instead. But they weren’t so he returned to Pentos and waited. Dany couldn’t help but laugh when she heard his story before apologising. Arstan in turn just expressed regret for not reaching them.

“I still can’t believe my own eyes, your grace. After Aegon the third no one thought that dragons would ever appear again. But here there are. Two of them.”

“Three,” she quickly reminded him. _Or six_. “Balerion is still with my husband.” She had told him of Aegon after Arstan spoke of her oldest brother, knowing more then she expected from a mere squire. “Three dragons like Aegon the first and his two sister-wives.”

The bearded man weakly bobbed his head. “Aye, history repeats.” He turned to her, his eyes looked sad. “Like your ancestor, you will take the Seven Kingdoms during a moment of chaos and establish yourselves as the true queen.”

“Mayhaps.” _The Seven Kingdoms were fighting each other when then the first Aegon appeared._ They are fighting each other once again, as was the spiders plan. “But their dragons were bigger.”

“But your army is bigger,” Arstan leaned on the staff like he was about to fall. “Unsullied, the Lost Legion—”

“—And the Golden Company,” Daenerys added. “If Illyrio can make them willing to listen.”

The old man shook his head, the wrinkles in his face tightening. “The Golden Company? Don’t trust them, they’re not your allies. I fought in the war of the Ninepenny Kings. I was with the force sent with thousands of knights and men-at-arms to the Stepstones. Their loyalties are to the Blackfyres, not you, princess.”

She frowned. “There are no more Blackfyres left and besides, Jon Connington fought for the Golden Company and he’s a Targaryen supporter, along with many others who fled the usurper. They are exiles, people wanting a home, like me. They won’t care who takes them there as long as they get Westeros at the end of it.” _And coin. They are sellswords after all_.

“That may be true, princess. But I would advise you to be cautious if you side with them. They’re not your friends. More than a few would be more than willing to kill you for a pardon and a lordship.”

Dany frowned. The squire was beginning to frustrate her. “I am very much aware of that, it is similar with all sellswords. But how am I just going to conqueror the Seven Kingdoms with less than ten thousand Unsullied? I need sellswords and the Golden Company are among the best. Better than the Legion.”

“The Lost Legion never fought against your ancestors. Apologises your grace, but using the Golden Company can damage your credibility to the eyes of the lords.”

“I’ve got dragons, or did you forget in your age?” She immediately felt guilty over saying that with the squires hurt expression. “I’m sorry, I . . . I’m just nervous.” Not much of a lie, she was worried about a few things: the dragons, the army and Westeros, but most of all her child. She could imagine it reaching the ears of the Lannister’s who would want to kill her sweet Rhaenys just as they did with her niece. She would feel safer if they were further away, only the Narrow Sea and the magister’s walls protected her.

“Then I apologise for that I said, your grace,” the squire said dutifully.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” she looked at where Meraxes had flew off to. _Grow faster please_.

Many moons passed before she received more news of her nephew. The messages said he arrived at Volantis after sailing around Old Valyria, capturing many ships from the fleets of Slaver’s Bay, as well as having sacked all three cities of everything of value. Much of it was sold in Volantene markets. At the bottom of the message, he wrote how much he missed her. Daenerys pressed it against her chest before remembering she wasn’t a blushing maiden and shouldn’t act as such. Haldon had rolled his eyes while Septa Lemore and Ser Duck laughed.

Another few weeks passed when her nephew finally arrived, travelling by a large carrack with stores of treasure from Slaver’s Bay and a century of Unsullied. He returned in the blue hair of Young Griff, making his eyes look blue during the day and black during dusk. She couldn’t wait and threw herself at him, planting a kiss on his lips. All his entire face suddenly turned rosy. Dany couldn’t help but giggle like a little girl. “I never thought you would put that back on. You keep saying how much you hate it.”

“I would avoid it if I could,” Aegon glanced at Ser Connington who too had the blue hair.

“It will be safer with him like that since we’ve separated from the army. They are heading to the Disputed Lands, alongside Ser Jorah and Ser Valarr,” the exiled lord replied.  

“ _Ser_ Valarr?” Dany wondered if having a sellsword captain leading their army would be a good idea, but if Ser Griff believed it was the safe, she had no cause to complain. Daenerys was certain he would have thought it through.

Connington groaned. “The son of a bastard wanted a knighthood for Meereen.”

“He deserved it,” Aegon quickly added, his voice melodious. “If it wasn’t for him, Meereen wouldn’t have opened its gates for us and allowed us inside. We would have had to siege it until it surrendered or we took it by storm.” He smiled – something which made Dany’s tummy flutter – but the expression quickly disappeared when he noticed Arstan. “Who is this man?”

Before Daenerys or anyone else could explain, the aged squire turned to Jon. “I would have thought you would remember me, Ser Connington.”

“How do you know me,” the exiled lord growled, pulling out his steel sword.

“Put your sword away, I can cut you like a knife through cheese. You think your blue hair hides you, it doesn’t.” Arstan seemed to grow in size at that moment, his voice also grew in strength. 

“Who are you,” Aegon asked again, more strongly this time.

Arstan dropped to one knee. “As I told her grace, I squired for Lord Manfred Swann in my youth, that much is true. But I am no longer a squire, I am a knight of Westeros. I have told no lies, my queen. Only truths I have withheld, for that I ask for forgiveness.”

“Princess,” she corrected, not thinking about anything to say. When she was younger, both she and Aegon were told they needed a coronation to be king and queen. It was agreed it will be once they get the Iron Throne. “Ser . . . if you are indeed, what truths have you withheld?” She glanced at Illyrio who suddenly appeared with that sly look of his. _You know_.

“I can answer,” Jon replied, his voice not hiding his anger. “This is Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard. The one who betrayed your house on the Trident and switched sides to serve the usurper.”

The old man didn’t blink. “I will admit that I fought on the Trident and killed several knights. But I was injured during the battle, close to death. That was when I was brought to Robert Baratheon. He spared my life and sent his own maester to treat me. An honourable warrior, but a bad king.”

“ _Honourable?”_ Aegon growled, his face going Lannister red. “He murdered my mother, father and sister. _You call that honour?”_

There was a pause before Barristan replied. “It wasn’t Robert’s doing, it was the doing of Lord Tywin Lannister. I wasn’t there when the Targaryen family was presented to Robert, the children wrapped in the crimson cloaks, a show of loyalty to the new king. I was spared from the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but if I was there, no army in the world could stop me from spilling his innards onto the floor.”

Conningtons face tightened. “You were at the Trident. Why weren’t you there protecting your prince?” He voice a low growl and his sword was held like he was about to strike the old man.

_He betrayed us. He served the usurper. Betrayed Rhaegar to serve this Robert Baratheon when me, Aegon and Viserys are here in exile. But he’s a kingsguard, one sworn to defend the royal family, why is he here?_ Before it could get out of hand, Dany stepped in. “Ser, tell us why you are here? Speak truthfully, on your honour as a knight. Are you the usurpers, or ours?”

“Yours, if you’ll have me.” His eyes glistened. “I took Robert’s Baratheon offer and I served in his kingsguard and council. I served with the Kingslayer and others just as bad. All who soil the white cloak. Nothing will excuse me for what I’ve done, serving Robert or that vile boy of his. It all shames me to admit, but when I ripped the white cloak off . . . the same cloak that Ser Gerold Hightower draped on my shoulders . . . the boy sent guards to kill me the very same day, only then did I see my calling. To put the proper king on the throne or die in his service . . .”

“You’re a traitor,” Aegon replied, his voice becoming hoarse. “You should have protected my father as a member of the Kingsguard. They serve the royal family until _death_ , you should have protected him and not turn your cloak like a lowly sellsword.”

That wounded the knight’s honour, but Ser Barristan only lowered his head. “That is correct, my prince . . . for that I can only hate myself. I can’t change the past, but I can help you both towards the future. I just ask for one thing, to help you win back the throne. Then I can die content . . .  content that I had a chance to repent my mistakes.”

Dany turned her attention to Magister Illyrio with venom in her eyes. “ _You knew_. You knew he was Ser Barristan Selmy and you didn’t tell me . . . you allowed me to believe he was just a squire.” She felt like a fool now. How could a squire know so much about her relatives? Daenerys had let him near Rhaenys, hold her once. _Anytime he could have hurt her. He could have been an assassin._

“Little princess,” the cheese monger rushed out with desperation from the anger of the Targaryen knights. “I knew that was the case. I sent him here, but I knew the Lannister’s would be watching and he came to me with a long beard and didn’t want me to reveal his identity . . .” the last of his words were an inconsistent stutter.

“My apologies, princess,” the old knight continued, still looking up at her. “But I was weary . . . for your father . . . the mad king . . .”

“You thought I was like him? You thought I was like my father.” She felt her insides burn at that. “I’m not the mad king, I know of this so-called Targaryen madness. _The gods flip a coin, either madness or greatness_ , quote from King Jaehaerys the second, _every time a new Targaryen is born_.” _Makes it sound like I’m a coin in the hand of a god_. Dany didn’t like it.

Ser Barristan showed a sad smile. “You speak like a philosopher. King Jaehaerys told me that when I was much younger, when I first served him. Your grandfather give me my white cloak.”

“What about me,” Aegon replied, flicking his blue locks back. “Am I mad like my grandfather or sane?” His face screwed up.  

Ser Barristan was more hesitate with her nephew. “You must forgive me, my prince, but I’m not well-versed enough to claim one way or the other.” Her nephew rolled his eyes. “Apologises, prince Aegon. When I heard that Rhaegar’s son survived, I could not believe it. I didn’t believe the spider’s tales or those of Illyrio, but I can now see the similarities between you and your father.” He then turned to Daenerys and lowered his head. “You are both the true rulers of Westeros. If you will accept my service, I shall remain faithful until the last of my days, should you find me worthy to bear a sword again. If not, I will be content to remain Arstan the squire, ready to tell you stories of your forefathers, clean your armour, or anything else you so desire.”

Dany couldn’t help but smile, if only slightly. Septa Lemore spoke up, “Ser Baristan is an honourable knight, well loved by both the lords and the smallfolk. He lends credibility to any side he joins. With him in the new Kingsguard, people will see you are the proper rulers and they will flock to your cause.” The aged knight looked up at the Septa, his pale blue eyes widening before quickly bowing his head once again as if ashamed.

_She does have a point, a rather good one_. Dany glanced at Aegon who still wasn’t happy, or Jon Connington. Ser Duck meanwhile looked amused at the whole situation. “Aegon, give him your sword.” Her nephew was hesitant but did so, handing it to Barristan hilt first. The knight then laid it down on the ground and he vowed himself to their service. _One more knight at our service. One kingsguard, only six more slots to fill_.

Turning to Aegon she mouthed to him, _he can help us_. As she knew, that seemed to calm him down, but not by much. “May I ask where Balerion is? He isn’t here? Has he got bigger?” Daenerys tried not to sound so excited as she changed the conversation. It was one of her children, one of the bigger ones. She doubted anything bad happened, because if that was the case, Aegon and the others would have told her straight away.

Her nephew gave her an amused smile. “Hunting. Balerion has gotten much bigger, so he hunts far away but always comes back. Don’t worry dearest aunt, your children won’t abandon you.”

She gave him a light smack on the shoulders, he only laughed. “Perhaps you’ll like to see her.” That had caught his attention. His smile grew from ear to ear. They didn’t need any further talking as he followed her through the manse like a pup. When they got to the cot, she smiled. “So this is Rhaenys,” Daenerys softly said, and the babe woke up to her presence, stared at them with curious eyes.

Aegon ran his fingers through his blue hair. “She’s perfect . . . our child, our heir.” Rhaenys released a soft murmur as he gently picked the babe up and cradled her. His face then saddened as the child gripped his finger. “Rhaenys . . . I vow on my life to always protect you, little dragon.”

Dany smiled and brushed a tear away. _She has his eyes_. “Our daughter is healthy, Haldon says so. Rarely crying and peaceful and gentle as a maid.” Ever she was hungry or wet, Rhaenys barely let anything above a whimper. Not that she needed to do more, for Dany or her handmaids were always near. 

“What about you?” He asked, his voice full of concern.

Dany pressed close to him, looking at their child. “I’m fine. Besides a little fever initially and fatigue, I’m good now. No need to worry.” Rhaenys had entered the world during late sunset, whimpering and wet with fluids. The pain was great and she screamed all through it, part of Dany believed she would die, not that she needed to tell Aegon that. She had nursed the child against her breast, but quickly had fallen into a deep slumber for two moons and still greatly tired after that.

“I should have been here,” Aegon said, sadness filling his voice. “I should have been here with you instead of Slaver’s Bay. I should have helped you through it.” He looked to be mentally chastising himself.

“ _No_ ,” Daenerys said, almost a little too loudly. She turned to her child, fearing her reaction, the child just stared at her with those large eyes of hers and gurgled. “No. Aegon, you needed to go to Slaver’s Bay.” She heard of Volantis and what they were doing. It saddened her but she knew it wasn’t her fight. Her fight was across the Narrow Sea. It especially angered Dany that any support they had from the Free Cities had ceased. After hearing the news of what happened east, both Tyrosh and Myr took back their offers of assistance for the Targaryen's disrupting their trade. _Let them, we are better off without them_.

Aegon showed a hint of a smile and kissed his princess’s forehead before Dany took the babe and gently laid her back in the cradle. Aegon looked sad but Dany knew there would be more time for both of them to get to know each other more. “I wonder if she’ll get confused when I remove the dye.”

Dany laughed before he embraced her. His clothes were marred by travel and dirt and sweat. It just served to remind her of when they travelled around Essos, sellsword and family. Her nephew cupped her cheek. “I missed you,” he said tenderly before pressing his lips against hers. Daenerys didn’t resist the gesture, pressing closer to him as his arms wrapped around her body. She missed him, his gentle words, his affection, she missed embracing his form and staring up at those beautiful eyes of his. Her nephew looked longingly at the cradle and their sleeping daughter. “I will win the Iron Throne, for us . . . for her. She’ll be the princess she deserves. I will not let her be an exile like us and live in fear.”

Daenerys brushed her hand against his hairless cheek. “She will, Aegon. We’ll both regain what is rightfully ours. Our children won’t wander through the Free Cities, answering to false names or dye their hair. They will feast in King’s Landing on the best food and lay on the softest beds, with the best teachers and behind safe walls. But we have to be patient. You haven’t heard the news from Westeros.”

“What news?”

The advantage of being in Pentos was its proximity to Westeros and information could easily spread across Narrow Sea so she knew what was happening in the Seven Kingdoms. A double edged sword however, Daenerys was sure they knew about the dragons and their planned invasion. “Like the pretenders death. The boy king was poisoned at his own wedding and now his younger brother has been crowned king and may soon marry the Tyrell girl. A boy of eight and his mother is serving as regent, while her father, Lord Tywin is dead. Robb Stark has died, killed at his uncles wedding and the Boltons have taken charge of the North where Stannis Baratheon has invaded. The Riverlands are devastated but are still fighting stubbornly.” She couldn’t help but smile, Dany wondered how much of it was the spiders doing. _Dead is one of our greatest advisories_. But she yearned to have watched Tywin Lannister be roasted by dragonfire.

Aegon chuckled. “Doesn’t seem that weddings ceremonies are safe these days. We have the perfect opportunity to invade. When the realm is in chaos and without a strong leader to unify them, we go in with the power of the east, promising peace and unity. But only if we move quickly. They should be expecting us and will fortify the coast when they’re done dealing with the others. We should move as fast as we can.”

Daenerys Targaryen agreed. _With Fire and Blood, Westeros will be ours_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.  
> I will warn that the next chapter will be long and will feature a certain dwarf.


	16. Aegon VI

Only a few times did they enter the Disputed Lands, a fertile region that was once peaceful during the time of the Freehold and the Volantene Empire during the Century of Blood. But when that broke, the cities of Volantis, Lys, Myr and Tyrosh all fought over the land. During the Triarchy, the region had been peaceful for thirty years but once that union tore itself apart, the lands once again were disputed and fought over by sellswords.

Aegon stood atop a shallow hill, looking down at the encampment of the Golden Company beside a shallow river. Griff showed a proud expression when they first saw it. The tents were lined up professionally with wide avenues. Around the perimeter was a palisade wall alongside a ditch filled with sharpened stakes. Down the river were latrines, where the waste would be washed away and the men collect fresh water further up. In the pastures were horses and more than two dozen war elephants. The great grey beasts grazed beside the river, pulling up reeds with their trunks. These elephants were bigger than the ones he was used too. _Bred and trained for war. Horses shall be terrified_.

Around the camp were large banners of cloth-of-gold all flying surrounding the boundary. A day south was the Unsullied and Lost Legion encampment. But they weren’t to join with the Golden Company just yet, not until Aegon showed himself and get the mercenaries to swear themselves to him. Around the camp patrolled sentries with spears and crossbows. A part of Aegon was happy that Dany remained with the Unsullied, leaving just him, Jon Connington and Haldon as well as six horsemen. The legion leadership vowed their undying support for the war, not that Aegon trusted the commanders for that. _Undying provided I’m on the winning side_ , he had thought. “So this is it.”

The prince had removed his sellsword garb, and dressed himself in something more worthy of his station: a black doublet, a sword and his dirk, black boots polished to a high sheen and a black half cape lined with blood red silk. While Jon had clad himself something more worthy of a lord. _The time of hiding is over_.

“This is it,” Jon Connington replied. “This is your army, or at least half of it.” He did look to have some pride with it. “Seems Homeless Harry has kept up discipline.”

“You were unsure?”

“Aye,” Jon replied, swatting away a fly. “Homeless Harry was the paymaster when Myles Toyne commanded. Good for handing out contracts, but not leading. How he got in command, only the gods know. But at least the discipline hasn’t jumped off a cliff with him in charge.” 

_Paymaster, that could be advantageous_. That would mean the company leader would be involved in logistics and that would involve equipping and suppling the army. Allaquo Stogarys had mentioned that the Unsullied would need better equipment to deal with Westerosi knights. _So money will be spent buying weapons and armour_. Aegon doubted eunuchs in quilted tunics could match against knights in full plate. “You don’t speak highly of him.”

“A coward is Harry. He’s a different breed of man within the company, but don’t worry about it. We ride forward regardless.” He galloped ahead, with both Aegon and Haldon following behind.

At the gate, Haldon talked to the serjeant of guards who sent a runner rushing to tell the captain-general of their arrival as well as to find a captain. Forward approached a big bellied giant of a man, his face crisscrossed with old scars, some light while others went in deep. One ear was missing and other looked like part of it was torn off. 

“Flowers?” Griff asked with some surprise in his voice. “They made you a captain? I thought even the Golden Company at least had some standards.”

The big man smiled, showing rows of broken teeth. “Worse than that, ya old bugger. They bloody knighted me as well.” He clasped Connington on the arm and pulled him into a quick hug. “You fucking look awful, even for a dead man. Blue hair is it? I thought you hated the Tyroshi. When Harry said you were coming, I almost shat myself. And Haldon, you humourless cunt, have you still got that stick up your arse?” When halfmaester didn’t answer, the captain turned to Aegon. “And this is . . .”

Before Aegon could reply, Jon put his hand on the boys shoulder. “This is him. Prince Aegon Targaryen. The rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. This lad, is _Ser_ Franklyn Flowers.”

Aegon gave a nod. “Flowers? You’re a bastard from the Reach.” _What fine company I’m in_.

“Aye. Me mother was a washer woman from Cinder Hall, till one of milords raped her. Makes me sort o’ brown apple Fossoway, in the cruel way I see it.” He gestured them in. “Rarely do we have the honour of being visited by Targaryen royalty, or Lost Legionaries. This may prove interesting.”

“It should,” Vogarro Nefatis said in the flowing accent of Lys. He was one of Valarr’s most trusted officers, even if he didn’t look it with his white hair and red eyes. Alongside him was also Tazal who was from a lesser branch from an Old Blood family of Volantis, and Ternesio Ahrerris, a disinherited brother of a Lyseni magister. All three were to represent the interests of the legion.

The bastard of the Reach glanced at the six horsemen. “Follow me, Strickland has called all officers to his tent. War council, not just because the Myrish are rattling their swords because they think we’re on opposite sides of this bloody dispute with Lys and Tyrosh. You six can dismount. Put your horses with the others. But never under any circumstances dare you show your steel.”

Aegon glanced at the many sellswords as they walked to the centre. The men of the Golden Company were maintaining their equipment, swatting flies or drinking. Many were giving him looks and making comments. _This is my greatest shot. I need these ten thousand men_.

The captain-generals tent was made of cloth-of-gold and surrounded by a ring of pikes topped with gilded skulls. Aegon stared at the skulls of the various generals. One was bigger the others, grotesquely malformed and below that was a smaller one, no larger than a child’s fist. _Maelys the Monsterous. Killed by the commander of my Kingsguard. Now your ancestor’s army is going over to your enemies_. The other skulls were similar to each other, some with cracked and splintered from battle. One even had filed teeth going into sharp points.

“Which one is Myles?” Jon asked. Flowers pointed to one near the end before disappearing into the tent.

Aegon noticed that it looked like many of the skulls were grinning, even Bittersteel who was on the largest pike in the centre. _Would he be grinning if he knew what is happening?_ Aegon doubted it. The Golden Company was founded to put a Blackfyre on the throne, not a Targaryen. The bastard Aegor Rivers died alone after various attempts. On his deathbed, he ordered his men to boil his skull and dip it with gold, and carry it across the Narrow Sea when they finally retake Westeros. _Your ancient enemy is going to fulfil your wish, traitor_. Flowers reappeared with his ugly head sticking out the tent and gestured them inside.

The high officers of the Golden Company rose from their stools as Aegon and his party entered. Some of the captains showed smiles that were directed at Jon Connington, while others frowned or just looked apathetic. Ser Franklyn did the introductions. A good few of the officers had bastard names, like Flowers, River, Hill, Stone. Others had family names of highborn houses, some of which shouldn’t exist: two Strongs, three Peakes, a Mudd, Mandrake, Lothston and a pair of Coles. Aegon doubted much of it was true, they were away from Westeros after all and family name weren’t the same thing in Essos. They were sellswords and could call themselves whatever they wanted. Regardless of name, all the officers wore their wealth on their person, jewelled swords and daggers on their belt, gilded armour, heavy torcs and fine silks. Each officer carried a hefty ransom in golden arm rings. Not all were of Westerosi heritage, the Summer Islander called Black Balaq who had skin as dark as soot and white hair was master of archers. Others were of Essos: Lyseni such as Lysono Maar who Aegon originally thought was a women, and the paymaster called Gory Edoryen was the company’s current paymaster and of Volantene birth.

_Interesting collection of sorts_ , the prince turned to the current general who when introduced, Aegon couldn’t believe it. He at least expected Harry Strickland to look a warrior, at least in part and with a few scars on his person. But the man didn’t look much a warrior as much a pompous merchant and just as intimidating. Portly with a round head with thinning hair which was brushed sideways in a vain attempt to hide his balding.

Harry turned from Jon to Aegon, his eyes studying the prince before a forced smile appeared. “Watkyn, wine for our guests. The good kind, Arbor Gold, or the Lyseni White or—.”

Jon quickly interrupted. “Thank you, but no. We only drink water.” 

“As you prefer.” He turned to the boy and gave the nod. The young lad ran off. Then the captain-general turned to Aegon. “So you’re the lost prince?”

Aegon nodded. “I am Aegon Targaryen, rightful heir of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princes Elia Martell of Dorne—”

“— As we are much aware,” Maar replied, a sly smile forming. “Everyone now knows of the prince who died and came back to life. Not just that, but one who resurrected three dragons to his cause and sacked Slaver’s Bay.”

“The true blood of House Targaryen,” the captain-general quickly added. “I will admit that I was unsure of you or this plan. I was told much from the cheesemonger, but I see that I was wrong. With the dragons and what happened east, I can see you are the true inheritor, not the Blackfyres.”

_This company was founded to kill my ancestors. But this is my best chance_. “I thank you for the compliment.” Aegon bit his lip. “We are the only dragons that you need. Not the Blackfyres.” He took note of their expressions when he said that. “The time of hiding has ended. With your swords, I promise that when the Seven Kingdom bows to the dragon, the men of the Golden Company will be richly rewarded. The Seven Kingdoms are weak from war, many areas are still resisting. What is there to stand in our way in Westeros? A women. A Lannister women. Our words are fire and blood. Hers are hear me roar. Hear my shriek, more like.”

Flowers laughed. “I like it. We attack now when their weak. Let them fight a new threat while their forces are scattered.”

“Be cautious, Flowers. The women is a Lannister, with the wealth of Casterly Rock behind her and with the power of Highgarden married to her son. Not only that, the lion likely knows of the dragons scent. How could she not? When we land and raise our banners, they’ll be coming straight at us.”

One of the Coles quickly replied. “We have three dragons, Unsullied, the Lost Legion and the Golden Company. When we land, more will flock to join us. The Dornish as well. Dorne has yet to taste blood and there is no way they can ignore our prince.”

“Especially with the death of Prince Oberyn Martell,” Lysono added. “When I heard of it, the Dornish were screaming for vengeance. Tywin Lannister is dead, with another boy king ruling, this one weaker and more gullible then the last. Rebels are thick on the ground as snow in the north. The Seven Kingdoms have never been so ripe for conquest.”

Harry shook his head. “Be that I remind you that even weakened, the powers of Highgarden and Casterly Rock are formidable. That Lannister whore will have the Kingslayer beside her, and more wealth then us.”

Laswell Peake shook his head. “The power of Highgarden is weaker then what is believed. Even after a century or so, many of us still have friends. They will drain the strength of Mace Tyrell and add to our own. Besides, these dragons have been hoarding wealth, enough to rival Casterly Rock.” He turned to Aegon. “I for one agree with this plan.” He pulled out his sword. “I would prefer to die in Westeros then Essos. At least I’ll see my ancestors home. I vow my service to Aegon Targaryen. King of Westeros, sixth of his name.”

Franklyn Flowers grinned and slapped the pommel of his jewelled sword. “Lands and titles, why not? As long as also get to kill me some Fossoways, I’m all for it.”

Aegon smirked as the officers of the Golden Company knelt and laid their swords at his feet, all vowing their service. He was sick of waiting, sick of hiding with blue dyed hair and pretending to be whom he was not. The last to vow his service was Harry Strickland, who seemed to have trouble getting back up. _Jon should be leader, one who I know is loyal to me_.

The sun was beginning to set when they left the captain-generals tent. Flowers took him around the camp, saying how he should know about the men he would be leading and how they would fight better for one they knew and respected. “We’ll start with the cooks, the undervalued members of our company, then the armourers. Let them make you more fitting armour. All good men to know.”

It was later when Aegon was discussing with the Golden Company commanders about their invasion of Westeros when Valarr strode in the tent with five other officers with horse crests on their helms. “Oh, isn’t it good to see you lads once more,” the captain said with a smirk. “I finally get to see my brothers in exile again.”

Tristan Rivers frowned. “We’re not your brothers and you were never exiled.”

Valarr pouted. “Is that how you treat your family?”

“We were never your family,” replied Laswell Pike who had his fingers wrapped around the handle of his sword and soon the legionary officers did likewise.

“What are you talking about,” Aegon asked as he glanced at the two groups eyeing each other. Valarr did mention once that he once served in the Golden Company, so he guessed there was some bad blood between them. _If that is the case, they better begin to work with each other_.

Valarr turned, his black hair hanging over his dark purple eyes. “Remember the story where Jon Connington stole from the Golden Company? My story is a lot closer to that, and in return I got a high valued position within the Lost Legion.”

“We could have your head, traitor,” Flowers grumbled, “And dip it in tar as a warning for other thieves.” 

Aegon rolled his eyes, but it was Jon Connington who interrupted. “We have paid you both to work, not to make idle threats to each other.”

“He’s right,” Homeless Harry replied as his feet bathed. “This invasion is more important than past grievances. I’m sure he can prove his forgiveness in due time.” He shot an awkward glance at Jon. “This is not the time for fighting, especially with plans which need to be set.”

Valarr’s face went serious and he looked at the maps of Westeros. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ve a few,” Jon replied as he tapped the table with his finger. “We’ve got a fleet, but it’s not big enough for the men we have.”

Harry Strickland nodded. “A bigger fleet is needed. In the company itself, we have ten thousand men. But we won’t just be transporting men, we’ve got horses. Five hundred knights, with three horses each. Five hundred squires with a single horse apiece, not to mention all the mounts involved with logistics. Also the elephants, we can’t forget the elephants. They need massive cogs, not just any ship will do.”

“Not to mention the Legion as well. We’ve got a few thousand horse,” the paymaster called Groleo said. He had dyed his hair gold and had a black leopard skin hanging from his shoulders. “But where are we going to find a fleet this big? Perhaps if we ask Myr, Lys or Tyrosh. They’re sure to have some.”

“The Three Daughters?” Valarr raised an eyebrow. “Groleo, remember Slaver’s Bay? They are pissed with us still.” He looked down and studied the maps. “We could split our forces, we don’t have to attack with all our army straight away. But where are we going to land? That should be our first question. The Stormlands are closest, that is our best bet.”

“What about Dragonstone,” Flowers asked. “It is the dragon’s ancestral home. It is sure to have some symbolic value, also allows us to control the Bay for when we take King’s Landing.”

Jon shook his head. “Not now, possibly later. We need to get to Westeros first. I think the Stormlands. It’s the closest and will be a good location to form a beachhead. Cape Wrath . . . that will be best.”

Aegon liked that idea. Not only was it close, the Stormlands were the homeland of the usurper Robert Baratheon. _You took my home, so I’ll take yours_. “I like it.”

“But what about the ships,” Harry questioned, his voice getting stronger. “I’m sure there are cogs and great ones which can transport our army, but if the Lannister queen is aware of us, she will have a fleet to stop us. We need escorts and warships.”

The Golden Company spymaster put a finger to his chin. “There are stories of a pirate fleet operating in the Stepstones with a few large ships. Triple decked dromonds if the merchants are correct. Led by the pirate who styles himself as ‘Lord of the Waters’.”

_Could prove useful_. “Who is he?”

Maar shrugged. “I’ll have to look more into it. But pirates do usually serve as sellsails, if the price is right.” 

Aegon glanced at Jon whose expression told him to consider it. _We need a fleet to support our army. To transport supplies from Essos and to protect our holdings_. “Try to make contact with this _Lord of the Waters._ See if he’s willing to support our invasion.”

“Of course, my prince.”

Valarr released a fake cough to get their attention. “Talking about transport is all well and good. But what about the Unsullied when we land? You’ve seen our army currently. They need to be properly equipped with armour and weapons. In Slaver’s Bay the Unsullied can be considered heavy infantry, but in Westeros, they’ll be considered light. If a charge of knight break through the lockstep, the Unsullied will be massacred in melee if equipped like this.”

Jon agreed. “Common foot soldiers are better equipped than the Unsullied. Like you said, they need to be better equipped if for the chance their line is broken, which can happen against a strong enough charge in a wedge.”

“Can we afford it?” Aegon wondered. He doubted it would matter, they did take more than enough gold and other valuables from Slaver’s Bay and he did plan on taking charge of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands which was said to be rich in gold and silver. All of which would be used to pay off their debts.

“Of course we can. We don’t have to equipped them in full plate mail, lad. They just need a gambeson and some mail and they’ll be good enough to fight in Westeros,” his foster father replied.

Aegon nodded. “Fine then. Do it, get as many armour and weapon smiths to equip our army, and myself for that matter.” _A sellsword garb isn’t the proper attire for the rightful king of Westeros_. When the meeting ended, he went to his tent where Daenerys was laying atop the bed, reading a book about Aegons the Conquerors takeover of Westeros. It was a tome which Aegon had been looking at, both at how his ancestor had conquered the Seven Kingdoms and what he done afterwards to unite the warring factions. “Greetings, dearest aunt. How is the book?”

Daenerys smiled at him and put the thick tome down. “An interesting read, even after a few times.” She moved to the side and allowed him to lay down beside her. “I do wonder about our dragons.”

“What about them?” Most of the time Meraxes, Vhagar and Balerion spent much of their time hunting around the Disputed Lands and feasting near the giant slaving plantations.

Dany inhaled and pressed herself against him. “Just . . . what happens in Westeros and how to train them. Illyrio and Halfmaester supply us with all these books to learn about how to ride them, but there are so many contradictions within these pages.”

Aegon smiled and kissed her cheek, it seemed to lessen her concerns. “You have to remember that dragons haven’t existed for more than a hundred years . . . also it didn’t help that King Baelor burnt a few books about them. It looks like we have to learn for ourselves.”

“What about Westeros? What’s the plan there?”

“Cape Wrath is our landing destination. Take the usurpers home and Griffins Roast, our Lord Conningtons castle. It will also allow near Dorne, which is guaranteed to help us.” He grinned. “Westeros will fall to us, my love. We’ve got the cream of the militaries of Essos. Golden Company, Lost Legion and Unsullied. Just add some Dothraki screamers and we’ll be all set.”

Dany laughed. “Keep dreaming, dearest nephew.” She showed a smile and put the book to the side before pressing her mouth against his and climbed atop his lap.

The kiss was gentle at first, but quickly became hungry and passionate. Aegon couldn’t remember how much he missed her touch and the pleasant sounds she made as she moaned into his mouth. His arms were soon to wrap around her slender form and their noses and foreheads pressed against each other. Her eyes were like dark amethysts that always lit up when Daenerys laughed. They were her most striking feature.

“Dany,” he softly pleaded, feeling her warm breath against his face. “I want you.” He tucked a stand of blonde hair behind her ear and began planting a series of kisses on her jaw and neck, eagerly listening to her ragged breathing. “I miss you, I miss your laugh, and I miss your touch. Your mouth and your kisses.” He kissed her pink lips and eagerly tasted her.

As Aegon pulled away, her face was a deep crimson. She smiled before flattening her palm against his chest and pushed him down. “You say you love me, but why don’t you show me.” She rubbed against his erection and smirked dangerously. Her eyes were almost black. Aegon tried to sit back up to kiss her again, but Dany pushed him down once more. That annoyed him, but the feeling was short lived when she began to strip out her gown. Purple eyes trailed down her form, taking note of the moles and marks and freckles that covered her pale skin. “I _want_ you, _my prince_.”

Almost timidly his hands touched her flesh, feeling her petite breasts and his fingers moving down to her thighs. Hers meanwhile loosened his breeches and grasped his hardened member. It made a shiver go down his spine. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are, sweet wife of mine. Have I told you that—”

His wife pressed a finger on his lips. “Shush, enough talk.” Her face was flushed, but she looked more sad then stirred. He held her close to him as they did it. Their coupling was gentle initially but rose in passion, finishing with Daenerys’ loud moan before he released his seed deep inside her.

As she rolled off him, he noticed a glisten in the corner of her eyes.

“Dany,” he softly spoke. Like she was aware, Daenerys looked away and rubbed them. Her nephew sat up. “Are you crying?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” she replied with some bitterness, wiping it away before turning back to face him. “It’s just . . . it’s Rhaenys. It’s leaving her in Pentos while we go off to war. I don’t like it. It feels like we’re abandoning her without her parents . . . like what happened to both of us.”

Aegon quickly embraced her, Dany accepted eagerly, rested her head against his chest as he stroked her hair. “It will be fine, Dany. We’re going to give her a home so she won’t be an exile and I swear to all the gods she won’t be an orphan.” He planted a light kiss atop his wife’s head. “If you’re worrying so much, you could stay. Let me take over Westeros and you come back when the dragon banner flies.”

Slowly Daenerys pried herself away and looked into his eyes, they were still puffy and red but they had a determination within them. “Aegon, I’m not some fragile flower who needs to be protected. I’m the mother of dragons,” the corner of her lip curled. “A Targaryen, descendent of King Aegon the Conqueror. I want to go home as much as you do and in no way am I going to wait here a moment longer.”

Aegon chuckled as he ran his fingers through her silky strands. “I never thought you will.” He doubted Daenerys would have left Slaver’s Bay if she wasn’t pregnant, and would likely have stayed through to the end. He didn’t expect any less for Westeros. “At least I’ll have company then, and someone to ride . . . Meraxes.”

“Aye. You need someone to keep you in line.” She let out a soft laugh before pressing closer to him again. “I miss her . . . a lot.”

“It’s to be expected. But our daughter is safe in Pentos. Magister Illyrio will protect her just like he has protected us all these years.” Aegon kept a dozen Unsullied to watch over her, so no threat would come to his little princess. He softly pressed his lips against hers as his hands once again began to trace his lovers’ body.

In the morning they received word that Magister Illyrio was visiting their camp with some gifts for the Targaryens and days passed before he finally arrived. In the meantime they had been polishing their plan to invade Westeros, making contact with the pirate by the name of Aurane Waters, bastard brother of Monford Velaryon, master of Driftmark. The bastard was willing to offer his services in exchange for coin, legitimization as well as to be Master of Ships and the lordship of Driftmark. Aegon accepted and the dromonds were yet to arrive.

Aegon waited atop his black horse as the giant wheel house came into view by the camp perimeter. Beside him was his wife on a gentle mare with a coat of silver. “Looking forward to meet our favourite magister?”

Dany nodded. “He has always been a friend to House Targaryen, if he needs anything, we should oblige him, and besides, I want to see what these gifts are.” She shot him a mischievous smile.

The wheel house and its entourage stopped in front of them. Aegon fidgeted in the saddle before Illyrio greeted them, raising his arms high as a group of strong slaves carried a heavy cedar chest. Aegons attention was on that before he noticed something waddling behind. It was dressed in his old children’s clothes – too tight for the creature’s body and the colour was faded out of the linen.

“Who is that?” Dany demanded as she turned to the dwarf. It was the ugliest creature Aegon had seen, and the Golden Company had a few. His coarse blonde hair was so pale that it was almost white; mismatching eyes of black and green and a jutting forehead. But the most striking thing about him was the huge scar which went diagonally across his crudely healed face as well as the missing nose.

Aegon felt sorry for him. _First to be a dwarf and then have that scar. The gods have surely cursed him_. He did wonder why Illyrio brought him along. _Does he think I need a fool?_

The Pentoshi magister smiled this broad smile. “This, my friends is Tyrion of House Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister and Joanna Lannister.”

The dwarf glanced at both Aegon and Daenerys, his eyes were calculating. “Son and killer. You could say I’m the greatest Lannister killer of this generation. I killed my mother when I was still a babe and I killed my father with a crossbow in the privy. I was disappointed that the singers were wrong. Tywin Lannister didn’t shit gold.”

“Why do you bring us the dwarf, cheesemonger,” Jon Connington demanded as his hand wrapped around the handle of his sword, looking ready to strike the halfman down. “What is this?”

“I know you were hoping for a wheel of cheese in my stead. But that only has half as many uses as me.” He paused and turned to the Targaryen’s. “Also, I killed my nephew Joffrey at his wedding. I poisoned him and he turned purple, like those eyes of yours.” He grinned sinisterly. “All whilst he choked to death. Now I’ve only got two more names to strike off my list: my brother and sister. If it pleases you.”

_What in the seven hells?_ Aegon glanced at Daenerys who looked just as confused.

“ _Pleases us?”_ Jon replied, his mouth slacked. “Why do you think the true king and queen of Westeros want a self-confessed _Kingslayer_ and _Kinslayer?”_

Tyrion nodded like it was nothing. “The nephew I slew had his arse planted on your throne. All those who I betrayed were lions, I do believe I did you a sweet service.” He scratched the scab that once was a nose. “Fear not, my little dragons. You are safe around me, we’re not kin.”

Aegon spoke up, his voice cracked compared to the melodious tone it normally was. “Why would you support our cause?”

The dwarf turned to him. “For gold, glory and adventure,” he said with fake cheer, before his tone darkened. “And hate. If you were unfortunate to know my father and sister, you’ll understand. I’m more than willing to join you in your merry little quest. My families death should help prove my loyalty.”

_I know what your father and brother did to my family_.

Dany stared at him, her mouth agar. “You want us to accept you, because you killed your own family?”

Tyrion nodded. “I do indeed.”

Jon Connington grumbled something to himself. “Why shouldn’t we just kill you now? Perhaps we should have your head.”

“And get yourself a lordship from my sweet sister.” The dwarf shrugged. “If that is the case, then ask for her cunt too. The best part of me for the best part of her. That will be a slightly more equal trade.”

“We don’t a want lordship, we want the throne.”

“I can see that, with your collection of sellswords, slave soldiers and Blackfyre loyalists. An interesting collection to say the least.”

“How _can_ you help us?” Aegon asked as his fingers pressed deeply into the reins. “You’re a dwarf.”

“Aye. You know my secret. It is true, I’m afraid. I am indeed a dwarf . . . a cunning one who can help you both get your throne. With my tongue and my wits, I can tell you both all you wish to know on how to defeat my sweet sister. I know what she thinks . . . if it can be considered that. I know how to defeat my brother both on and off the battlefield. I know what lords are cunning, brave and craven, loyal and treacherous. I know how to get you allies and remove your enemies.” His smile grew, stretching the horrid scar. “I also know much about dragons. I can also piss well, not as much as the magister here and I don’t eat much, half as any other man. Consider me the best ally you can possibly get. Your one true imp, you could say.”

Aegon didn’t know what to say about that. He glanced at his wife and she didn’t seem to know either. Jon’s face darkened. “Understand this, imp. Hold your tongue unless told otherwise. Keep your witticisms to yourself.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I am no lord, not anymore.”

“Friend then. I can just _tell_ we’ll get along.”

“I am not your friend.”

“A pity.”

Aegon didn’t think it was possible for his foster father’s face to tighten anymore, but it did. Dany spoke up, “Tyrion of House Lannister, if you prove yourself to be obedient and useful, we’ll let you join us.” Her face however didn’t seem to like her own words.

“But if you prove to be trouble, we’ll send a part of you back to King’s Landing,” Jon quickly added.

“Therefore making me the quarterman if I displease. The dragons offer a tough bargain but one I accept.”

_Not like you had much choice_. “Duck can take you to a tent.”

The imp glanced around. “Then fetch the duck.”

“I’m the duck, you snivelling little pisspot,” the knight said as he stepped forward.

The dwarf looked up. “I had a smaller duck in mind.”

Rolly laughed. “He wants a smaller duck.”

“Maybe a quieter one as well,” Daenerys whispered his ear. Aegon smiled. “Take the Lannister to a tent. We’ll talk to him later.” Duck grabbed the dwarf by the back of the neck and half pushed, half dragged him away. When she turned to Illyrio, her voice went cold. “A Lannister?”

The magister nodded. “He is a Lannister, yes. Suggested by Varys. A smart creature, with much spite towards the family who birthed him. A powerful ally to say the least.”

Dany frowned. “You expect us to take in the spawn of the one who killed our family? Why shouldn’t we do as Griff suggested and shorten him by a head?”

“You’ll be throwing away some talent,” Illyrio replied without a moment pause. He turned to both of them. “If you are to rule over them. You will have to ally with people you don’t like. He is the rightful heir of Casterly Rock . . . if he wasn’t banished. But I’m sure that a grateful king and queen will give him his rightful home in return for his aid.”

Aegon wouldn’t mind killing all the Lannister’s but the magister was right. It could get the Westerlands to support them afterwards. _If half of what he was saying was correct, he could prove a great help_. Few in their group knew the political climate of Westeros. “Perhaps you are right magister.” Dany turned to him, her brows arched. _I like this as much as you_. “We can talk further in the shade and wine. But mind if I ask what is in those crates?”

Illyrio then smiled and ordered his slaves to open it. “I little parting gift I wish to give to you. A long lost artefact which will symbolise the return of the rightful house.” He stepped to the side. Aegon glanced at Dany before they both dismounted their horses and looked inside. His mouth widened as he saw it laying atop of purple velvet. “The sword of Aegon the Conqueror and his descendants. The only sword worthy of yourselves.” Aegon stared down at it. It was a hand-and-a-half longsword, with golden dragons forming the crossguard and the blade was Valyrian steel as evident by dark ripples within the metal.

“Where . . . where did you get this?” _Shouldn’t it be with the Golden Company?_  

“I have mentioned I have friends in many places, and after the Nine failed their attempts to conqueror Westeros, they had no Blackfyres to lead them. In the chaos it went missing and I found it. Now I have returned to the rightful king.”

Aegon was suspicious. That story is too much of a coincidence, if it was even that simple. Nevertheless, Aegon swallowed his doubts and accepted the gift. The sword of a conqueror, the sword of his forefather. Slowly his hands reached into the crate and picked it up. The blade was much lighter than he ever imagined, much less than the swords he was used to. _It’s beautiful_. “Thank you, magister. It is a worthy gift.” He lowered his head. “You have my thanks and those of my house.”

“It was nothing, lad. I’m thankful you like it. But may I talk with you in private? I would like to talk to you about the Iron Bank, and as I will be serving as your Master of Coin, it would be important to inform you what is happening.”

“Of course, magister, would you care to follow my servant? I’ll be there shortly.” The obese man lowered his head and followed Doreah. “What do you think of it Dany? Jon?” He was smiling from ear to ear, trying suppress his laughter. “The blade of Aegon the Conqueror itself. It has finally returned to its proper owners, after all these years.” _He brings me a sword and one I would like to test it on_.

Daenerys smiled, at the same she looked annoyed. “If only he gave me Dark Sister as well.”

Aegon chuckled. “Wish to be my queen Visenya, do you?”

Dany rolled her eyes.

“Are you sure about this, Aegon,” his foster father said with caution in his voice. “It may be the blade of Aegon the Conqueror, but many in the Seven Kingdoms see it more as being the blade of the Blackfyre pretenders. That and with the Golden Company, the lords may view you as one.”

Aegon groaned. _This again_. _The Blackfyres have all died out. The last was Maelys the Monstrous who died to Ser Barristan’s sword._ “Fear not, my lord,” he said whilst his eyes sternly looked at the man who raised him. “That may be the case, but this sword belonged to Aegon the Conqueror and the Targaryen kings after him. When we land in Westeros, no one will question my claim or identity. Especially with dragons, three of them. Just like the first Aegon.”

“He is right,” Daenerys added. “Isn’t that why me and Aegon got married originally? Too remove any qualms about his claim. The sword belonged to our forefathers and the Golden Company are sellswords. Let them doubt the dragon, but they’ll regret it.”

Griff lowered his head. “Yes, my princess. I was just being cautious.”

Aegon smiled. _You’re the father who raised me . . . the closest I’ve got_. When they were still posing as sellswords, Jon was his father. _How much he hated it when I called him it when I was little_. “I know you were. What I respect about you.” _And what I disliked about you_. The exiled lord showed the slightest hint of a smile. “We shouldn’t leave our dear magister waiting.”

As they entered the large pavilion, the Pentoshi merchant was reclining on a large cushioned chair near the table. “We’ve got all the wines of the Free Cities as well as wines from Westeros.”

“A long ride from Myr. It was,” their guest sounded tired. “Some Arbor Wine, if you may.” Doreah left to retrieve some and Illyrio straightened up. “There is no point in waiting, my dragons. I have a plan that will benefit you. Winter is fast approaching Westeros. From your little . . . _campaign_ in Slaver’s Bay, you have lots and lots of coin which you can use to buy food whilst I can provide assistance with my fleet. The smallfolk will love you, even more when snow fills the ground and food becomes scarce, and more so with the kingdom is beset by raiding marauders and bandits who burn down the remaining fields and towns.”

“You ask us to feed the people,” Dany summarised. “Isn’t that what we would have done anyway? After all, it’s our duty to feed and care for the people. A shepherd protects their flock.”

“It is indeed, my princess,” Illyrio replied. “You have a kind and gentle heart. But this will help gain you support as well as show Westeros that you are both just and fair and honourable. But may I suggest one more thing before you leave?”

“What is that magister,” Aegon asked. “You’ve helped us so much since we were little. You are a friend to House Targaryen, you may say as you wish.”

“You have much gold and resources now, but you need the support of one more entity besides myself.” He paused. “You need the support of the Iron Bank of Braavos. From what I know, the Iron Throne is more than ten million gold dragons in debt. All owned to various different banks and actors. Myr money lenders, for instance and the Lannister’s have even asked the magisters of Pentos. But it may be more. The Iron Throne lacks the assets needed to give to the Iron Bank, and the bankers of Braavos are getting evermore desperate. But you do. The loot from Slaver’s Bay could be more than enough to pay the thrones debts and interest.” He took a sip. “The Iron Bank has called in all its loans and many lords are now desperate for coin. Especially now winter is setting in.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Daenerys folded her arms. Aegon didn’t like what the magister was hinting towards.

“Go to the Iron Bank, get them to support you. If they support your claim, they won’t finance the campaigns of the other pretenders like Stannis Baratheon or the Lannister’s. They will ask for you to pay off the debt, which is standard. But you will receive more than enough money and it will strip any support the pretenders have.”

Dany shook her head. “Why should we pay for the pretenders debts? Westeros was rich and bountiful before the usurpers stole our throne. The Lannister’s and Baratheon’s got in debt, they can pay for it.”

Illyrio gave her a look. “You have a Lannister here. Perhaps you could ask him to pay for a sizeable share when he gets Casterly Rock. A price to pay for his home and some reparations for what his family did.”

_Not bad_ , Aegon thought. _The Lannisters are still among the richest families in Westeros, so they’ll sure be able to pay some to help cover it_. “But will he agree to it?”

The merchant prince shrugged. “If he wants his home and his life, or that of his house. Some people will slice open their wrists to save their family, while others slice open their family’s wrists to save themselves. You may want to see which one this Lannister is.”

_He will want to save himself . . . possibly. He bragged about how he killed his family_.

Illyrio releasing a loud cough. “If you want the support of the Iron Bank, and I suggest you do. They will demand you take up the thrones debts, regardless whether you caused it or not. The Iron Bank will have its due, if you ask for their help or not. They will still demand every last copper.”

_And if we refuse, more pretenders will sprout up_. Aegon glanced at Dany who seemed annoyed. “What you do think, my dear?”

She sighed and looked at Illyrio. “You are to be the Master of Coin. Are you sure about this cause of action?”

The Pentoshi nodded. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if it wasn’t worthwhile. Boast your resources whilst cutting it from your enemies. Wars are fought with money as much as they are with swords.”

“When we’ll go to Braavos, see if we can convince the Iron Bank.”

A part of Aegon missed Braavos when they visited as Griff, Young Griff and Rohanne, alongside Septa Lemore and Halfmaester. Aegon would stare up at the Titan of Braavos as they sailed in by ship. He still remembered the roaring. “We shall. Will you come magister? Seeing as you will be serving as our Master of Coin.”

The Pentoshi shook his head. “I am not well favoured in Braavos, I’m afraid—”

_I wonder why_.

“—so I wouldn’t be able to help you there as much as I should. But I can provide you with names and details on those who are more likely to be sympathetic to your cause. A few of them may have heard of what you did in Slaver’s Bay and with the Braavosi distaste of slavery, many might be willing to listen.”

_But Slaver’s Bay is in chains. Volantis took the region over after we destabilised it_. Aegon sighed. “As you say.” They talked some more about the Iron Bank of Braavos and what they should be negotiating, as well as the cost of equipping the army. Word had been sent off for Myr, Lys and Tyrosh for smiths to fill the army with much needed equipment: armour, spears and shields for the Unsullied who lacked their own crafters.

When they were done, Aegon left to see the Lannister.

“He’s a feisty little fellow,” Duck said with a chuckle. He was waiting outside the tent, with a black woollen doublet with a golden duck sewn on his chest. “Your conversation with him will be quite amusing.”

_I had a feeling when we met for the first time_. The prince gave a nod and walked into the tent. “Greetings, my lord.” The dwarf had a cup with dark wine reaching the top and an empty flagon beside it. _A drunk, oh my luck just gets better_.

“I am no lord, my prince,” the Lannister said without looking up at him, instead holding the cup by both hands and taking a large gulp, the liquid ran down his chin and onto Aegons old clothes. When Tyrion managed to remove his lips from the cup, he said, “I would offer you some . . . if there was any left. There wasn’t much wine on the ride from Myr and I can get thirsty easily.”

Aegon forced a smile as he sat down. “Illyrio tells me that you almost drank his entire wine cellar. An impressive achievement in itself.” Aegon rarely had much wine. Maybe a few cups spread throughout the day. Griff was always cautious and when they sailed down the Rhoyne the prince had to remain vigilant for pirates.

“I never fail to surprise. I am a demon dwarf after all . . . but you surprise me as well.” Lannister showed a sly smile. “Care for a game of cyvasse? It is a lot more entertaining than simply talking.” Aegon accepted the offer. He played the game many times, first learning in Volantis. Haldon always beat him, while the games between him and Dany were more equal. _I can beat a dwarf deep in his wine_. Aegon ordered a game to be brought and they set up their pieces behind the screen. The prince set up his dragon, elephants and heavy horse at front. _Strike fast and hard before they know what happens._

They played the game, both lion and dragon carefully watching the other. When Aegon moved his dragon, the dwarf was glaring at him. Those mismatching eyes looked like they could look into his soul. It creeped him out. “I must admit that you are comely, for a boy who had his face dashed against a wall.”

Aegon flushed and shifted awkwardly in his seat. “That wasn’t me. That was a boy from pisswater.” He was annoyed how much he had to repeat the same answer. _But like I said, I’ll have to say it many times_. “Lord Varys brought the boy from a tanner who had too many mouths to feed. I was switched out for the pisswater boy and Lord Varys carried me away across the Narrow Sea.”

Tyrion Lannister moved a piece. “Maybe true, maybe not. A boy had his head smashed in and you hid in Essos with our dear friend the cheesemonger, who found an exiled lord to pretend to be your father, and you met your future wife. The singers will indeed love you. The lost prince who was hidden before coming back from the dead to take back his families throne. A splendid story.” Aegon frowned and moved his dragon, removing a spearmen from the game. The green eye of the dwarf lit up. “It was a mistake to do that. Your family does have a reputation of being overbold. Like your father.”

“Do you know my father?” He didn’t know how old the dwarf was. The scar made it hard to guess.

“I met him twice or thrice.” Tyrion moved a crossbowmen. “I was ten when your father died, and my sire thought I embarrass the family, so he hid me under a rock. So I cannot claim to know Rhaegar Targaryen. But your false father, Jon Connington, why not ask him? I’m sure he knows more of your father when I ever would. They were best friends, correct?”

“They were friends. They squired together in King’s Landing.” Aegon flicked some silver hair out of his eyes. “But my father was best friends with Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning.” _Who Griff seemed to be jealous of_. 

“A true friend is one who sacrifices his life and any wealth or fortune he made, all too protect his friends son. He must be a true friend to protect you all these years. A pity that I never had one like that.” He moved another piece. “Protected your aunt as well. The aunt you married, birthed a purple eyed daughter for you and now you own three dragons. I would very much like to see them, if that is fine with you, my prince. You see, I’ve always lusted after one, dreaming that I could ride atop of one and now you have not one, but three. Like Aegon the Conqueror. But you lack one rider.”

“You think you can fly one?” Aegon almost laughed from the queer thought. The sight of that dwarf flying Vhagar would be humorous. _But if you could, I’ll have you killed on the spot_.

Tyrion Lannister shook his head before gulping down more of his drink. “You think I could ride one? I require a special saddle for a horse, let alone a dragon . . . and besides, I have no Targaryen blood in me. They’ll likely eat me as soon as I showed myself. A little snack, if you will.” He moved his dragon back to avoid a catapult. “Do you know where whores go?”

Aegon flushed. “Do I look like I visit whores?” _Why would the dwarf ask something so stupid?_

“Never mine, my young prince. You won’t need to with that beautiful wife of yours, besides, I’m sure the whores will be throwing themselves at you for free, unlike myself.”

They continued to play the game, neither making rash moves. Aegon bit his lip, he had rarely encountered a player like Tyrion Lannister but he wagered Haldon would beat him. “You said you can help us. How?”

Lannister paused and looked at him in the eyes. Aegon flinched. “How were you prepared to rule? I expect one such as yourself to have some form of education.”

“I was raised to be the future king, with all the skills needed to rule.” _Arms, languages, maths; history, law and poetry and the faith. Treated like a lowly sellsword, so I know how to bind up wounds, repair my own clothes and fish and hunt my own food_.

“And what skills are those,” the dwarf asked with a sarcastic tone. Aegon explained, with Tyrion’s lips slowly forming a cruel smile. “The perfect upbringing for the perfect prince. Like I said, the singers will love you.” Aegon smirked at that, too be remembered like the dragon knight or the conqueror himself. “But love won’t make you win the throne by itself. How do you purpose to do it?”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “With an army.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Aye. I believe so and you couldn’t have picked a better time to do it. The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos, thanks to my fool of a sister. My nephew rules the Kingdoms . . . the good nephew, the one I don’t wish to see die. My sister, inept as she is, has ruined Westeros in her never ending quest for power. Any alliances my father has forged are slowly becoming undone because of her. If left unchecked, she could destroy the Seven Kingdoms. She’s as paranoid as Mad King Aerys, selfish as Aegon the Unworthy and cruel as Maegor. She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She mistakes foolishness for wits and caution for cowardice. Prince Aegon, you could never have asked for a better enemy.” He smiled craftily. “When people are flocking to your banner, she will watch and tremble and I would so dearly love to see her face then . . . right before I strangle her beautiful neck. But best move quickly, there are others wanting to be regent and all of them are more competent.”

“You seem to be close to your family,” Aegon sighed and used his trebuchet. “What do you want?”

“Many things I want, my dear prince. Like I said when we met: glory, adventure and glory, as well as revenge. As well as some other things which I doubt even you could give me.” He gulped down the last of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “For what I say about my brother and sister, there are ones in my family who I do care about.”

“Like who?”

“My nephew and niece for starters. Tommen and Myrcella, if you weren’t aware. Their innocent, unlike Joffrey who deserved his death. I offer you my services, in how I said when we met. In return, I want my birthright as you do. Casterly Rock and to be Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.” Aegon frowned. “You may disagree, but the Lannister’s were kings before Aegon the first ever stepped foot on Westeros. Their claims are strong and placing another house in their place can cause some unfortunate problems. I wish for the rock, and the lives of Tommen and Myrcella. They are bastards born of incest between my brother and sister. They have no Baratheon blood running through their veins and therefor they have no claim.”

“But many will disagree with that statement. As long as people believe they are trueborn, they will fight and they will always have a claim,” the prince replied sternly. “Your nephew is married to the Highgarden girl. Why should I let him live with such numbers behind him?” _They will fight to the death else their family is dishonoured by marrying a bastard and lose a throne_.

The dwarf shrugged. “Or you’ll be like my father.” Aegon froze at that. The Lannister smirked subtlety. “Killing children, that is what my father would do. Magister Illyrio told me how much you _hate_ him. His men killing your beloved sister and mother. Why would you want to follow in his footsteps?”

The prince tensed and spoke through clinched teeth, “If you are to aid me and I refuse to execute this nephew, tell me how to deal with him.”

“As I said, my prince. Tommen and Myrcella are bastards. _Waters_. Last time I checked, bastards can’t inherit. Besides, they are young and innocent. Neither of them are like Cersei.”

“And the kingslayer?”

“My brother preferred the sword, not the sceptre. He has no ambition, politically. Only to get better with a sword, then he lost his hand. Jaime runs from any chance for power and responsibility.”

“The kingslayer,” Aegon muttered, his voice starting soft and gentle, but quickly got louder. “I hate him more than anyone else. Not because he killed king Aerys, but because he let my sister and mother get butchered by your father’s dogs. He was sworn as a member of the kingsguard. He was meant to protect them . . . to protect the _entire_ royal family. What did he do when he killed the mad king? He sat his arse on the throne. He sat on the throne while my mother was raped and my sister was murdered. Rhaenys was _three_ when it happened. I will not give mercy to the usurpers dogs. _I will not_. Neither will I give mercy to the Kingslayer.”

“Well get in line, my prince,” Tyrion replied as he refilled his cup. “I too want my kinsmen’s death. Be that as it may, my reasons aren’t as just as yours, but it doesn’t mean I want any less.”

Aegon scoffed. “Not if I get there first.” He moved a crossbowmen.

The dwarf smiled a cruel smile, it only served to his face look uglier. “You seem like a smart lad, I’ll give you advice when you get your throne. Do not trust anyone, my prince. Not your false father, your gallant duck, chainless maester or your lovely Septa, nor any of your fine friends which grew you from a bean, or even your beautiful bride. But above all, trust not the cheesemonger nor spider with his web of deceit.” He moved his piece and placed it down with a thump. “Tis true that this mistrust will sour your heart, but better to have a beating heart then none at all. As your grandfather forgot when he opened the gates for my father. Some of your old friends can turn enemies when it suits them.”

“No they won’t,” Aegon forced his dragon down with a loud thump. “They’ll have no reason to betray me.”

The Lannister let out a cruel laugh. “Perhaps you are the fool here and not me.” Aegon clinched his fists and felt the urge to try out his sword. Tyrion smirked. “Death in two. You can move your dragon, but it will only delay the inevitable.”

Aegon stared down. _How could he do that? How could I be beaten by a creature such as this?_

Like the Lannister could read his thoughts, Tyrion said, “But what do I know. You have friends and three dragons which can prove you are a descendent of House Targaryen. I have none. I’m probably just a little jealous. You will be loved and I’ll be hated. Spite and envy is the characteristic of an evil dwarf such as myself.”

The prince inhaled sharply and stood up. “You beat me. I want you to swear an oath to the Targaryen cause.” _As little as that is worth from a Lannister_. “And serve us. In return, Casterly Rock and the title of Lord Paramount are yours. But only if you serve us faithfully. I know a few who will be more then eager to show your head to your sister.” The halfman accepted it, before refilling his cup started to drink again. Aegon left, leaving a guard by the entrance. _Now to Braavos_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	17. Daenerys VII

Dany couldn’t clearly remember the last time they visited Braavos. Her memories were clouded but she could remember bits and pieces from her youth. The house with the red door and the Titan especially. She stared at the structure now. The giant bronze man who overlooked the entrance of the lagoon. Daenerys stood at the prow of the ship as the wind blew in her hair. The giant stood tall and proud, rising up from the black granite that had been carved by three generations of sculptors and stonemasons.

_The giant who protects Braavos_ , the stories told. When she had been little, Dany thought it would come to life and crush the fleets of the invaders, swinging his massive sword around and sending ships and men into the sea’s embrace. But it was only a fortress, she came to realise. _A strange looking fortress_. Four hundred feet it stood, at the top was his head engulfed within bronze halfhelm and its eyes lit with fire.

It roared.

Dany covered her ears and felt it echo through her body. Aegon did likewise and the Pentoshi captain laughed but she didn’t hear him. The sound was huge, groaning. Loud enough to drown out the crashing of the harsh waves, the captain and the others on deck. Seabirds took flight in the hundreds and ending the flat silence afterwards with their calls.

The captain turned to her. He was a large man, with aged features and a bald besides a few whispers of grey hair. “Don’t be afraid, princess. The Titan’s roar tells of our coming to the Arsenal.”

“Their expecting us?”

Yorko chuckled. “This is for every ship, princess. Regardless of whom she carries. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid.” _I’m a dragon. A dragon is never afraid_.

The wind had kicked up once again and pushed them straight into the rocks, but the sailors used all their strength and skill to turn the ship through the channel between the fortress’s legs. Dany stared up at the many arrow slits lining the stone thighs and the pitch black murder holes right above her head.

The oars slowed down to a slow steady pace and they were soon into the lagoon of Braavos.

The winds had died down and her blonde hair was no longer blowing uncontrollably in the gale like gusts outside. Ahead was another structure, like a stone block rising from the murky waters. That looked more like a castle, or the closest she imagined a castle to look like. Its stone battlements bristled with scorpions, trebuchets and other artillery. _Could it take down a dragon_ , she wondered.

“The Arsenal,” the captain stated, pointing with a meaty hand like she hadn't noticed. “A war galley can be built within a single day there. No other city has a shipyard where a vessel is built nearly as fast.” Dany watched men build these ships, with dozens upon dozens waiting upon the ramps. All with their purple hulls and sails, awaiting for the signal like hungry dogs at a hunt. “It houses the grand fleet of Braavos. Nothing can rival her, not even Volantis or the Three Daughters during the Triachy.” She believed it.

Her nephew stood beside her, leaning on the side of the ship, his eyes staring out at the flat city before them. It was different from many others she saw, where buildings only went as high as they could built without any hills or natural elevations. Brick and granite, stone and marble, the structures were built of. Its many canals cut through the streets, and ships of all kinds sailed in and out. It looked very depressing, not only because of the thin fog. “Will we dock at the purple harbour,” he asked, his voice soft.

The captain shook his head. “This is a Pentoshi ship. The Purple harbour is for Braavosi exclusively. We’ll be docking at Ragman’s, if it’s of no concern, Prince Aegon. Ragman’s a lot livelier. Not sterile. May be less fitting for one of your station, but the wines are rich and flowing and the people are friendly, always in good jest. Not like the snobbery of the Braavosi elite . . . if you pardon my tongue.”

Daenerys wasn’t truly listening and just gazed at the city that seemed to float. _Will I see the red door_ , she wondered. _Mayhaps I may ask Jon or Ser Barristan if I can look around_. _A house with a red door, with a lemon tree outside_. But the city looked different in her memories. _It’ll be there, I just have to look_.

After some bribing of the custom officers at Chequy Port, they docked at Ragman’s harbour alongside hundreds of other vessels, not one was like the other and all formed a forest of masts and sails. Giant whaling ships from Ibben, swan ships from the Summer Isles, galleys and cogs and carracks from Volantis, the Three Daughters, other Pentoshi vessels, from the Jade Sea and beyond. There were more harbours, more distant and as they sailed over Daenerys could see some buildings having sank into the waters, their roofs and the upper parts pointing out like small icebergs. Daenerys tightened the cloak around herself to protect against bitter cold and stared at the city proper. Like she already knew, Braavos was built atop many islands, both big and small. Most connected by bridges but it seemed that boat was the main way for people to get around. The city was a forest of grey lifeless stone and bricks that stood four to five stories with ceramic roofs glistening in the light drops of rain. _A city of masks, whispers, assassins and bankers._ _And not a lemon tree in sight_.

Servants rushed to collect their things and carried large cedar chests to the deck. Jon Connington strode over, clad in mail and his hair was dyed just like Aegons and hers. “It would be wise to find a lodge. Then we seek out for the Iron Bank on the morrow or within a few days.” He glanced at the docks. “We need to find one of honourable repute within this foreign city, and whose workers have closed ears. We don't know who could be listening.”

“When we just ask around,” eagerly replied Aegon. “I’m sure there is enough to choose from.”

“Don’t reveal too much,” warned Jon harshly. “This place isn’t too fond of dragons from its history.”  Aegon dismissed it, citing that Targaryen’s and Braavosi have been dealing for centuries.

Dany remained quiet, intrigued by the city. It was nothing like how she remembered it. It was cold and wet. She remembered it being warm, bright and rich with the scent of lemons and fruit. _This is the smell of salt, damp and fish_. Winter is coming, she concluded. The cobblestones were slick underfoot as they walked through the streets alongside peoples from around the world and none of them paid the Targaryens any attention unless it was to get out the way. The streets were chaotic with sailors and whores and traders and money counters; mingling beside them were cutpurses, dueling Bravos, mummers and artisans. As she looked at the lines of people at the moneylenders, a part of Dany doubted they will aid them. She dismissed it as soon as the thought occurred. _They have to. It is our rightful throne and we are the only ones who can pay them_. Cut off the pretenders, was the reason she agreed. _Wars are fought with gold as much as steel_.

Eventually they found a lodge, favoured by wealthy traders and officials from around the world including Westeros. Their party took residence in a large suite. A common room connected all the chambers which included a masters, a collection of smaller quarters for servants and retainers as well as a study. While Ser Connington and Haldon wanted to plan to deal with the Iron Bank, she wanted to explore the city: the docks, the plazas, the canals. _A house with a red door_. Dany tried to remember the building and the surrounding area, but the memories were foggy like the air outside the misted window.

After a brief argument, Connington won.

Her nephew leaned on the table, his fingers drumming against the weirwood. It frustrated Haldon halfmaester who was trying to explain their situation. “The problem won’t be getting them to give you loans. They’ll do that as long as they believe you have a chance of paying. The problem will be tying . . . _stop that_.” Her nephew did, but didn’t look any happier. Like her, Aegon wanted to explore the city but it was to get out the packed lodge and stretch his legs. He had removed the dark blue dye from his hair and in the light of the torches it seemed to glow ethereally. “The problem will be trying to get them to support the both of you exclusively. If reports are correct, they have already sent an emissary to Stannis Baratheon in his war in the north. The Iron Bank has never gone to solely one pretender—”

“We’re not pretenders,” Daenerys growled. “We’re taking back our rightful throne.” _Our family’s throne, our child’s_.

The halfmaester turned to her. “You are pretenders because you’re fighting against the Iron Throne and have a blood claim. You lack the throne therefor making you pretenders, or invaders who have yet to arrive. Yet I digress. If there is any chance to cut off the coin to Stannis Baratheon, you take it. They need to know that you will win and pay off the debts in its entirety all within a reasonable timeframe.”

“Easy,” Aegon said with that smug grin of his. “We’ve got plunder from Slaver’s Bay and with Magister Illyrio as Master of Coin, we can easily pay off the debt. He did start from a lowly Bravo to rise to one of the most powerful traders in the world.”

“Yet you miss a step. You need to conquer Westeros first and wars cost a lot of coin. Besides the Unsullied, your army is entirely made up of sellswords, who aren’t cheap and not the most generous of people.”

Ser Duck was quick to interject, causing Griff to give him a look of reproach. “You’re also offering them more, as long as they don’t rape or loot from the smallfolk.” Dany remembered when Aegon demanded that of the Golden Company. They were looking at each other like her nephew was a fool, but agreed once they were told they’ll be _'compensated’_.

Aegon ran his hand through his hair. “I know. But we do have a lot of coin . . . and other valuables. Magister Illyrio has put a good price for them and will know potential buyers.”

“Like himself, and for cheaply,” Jon snapped. “You should know better than to place so much trust on the cheesemonger.”

“Of course I trust him. He’s aided us since I was a babe. I expect him to seek a return for it, I know he does. I’m no fool. But why shouldn’t I trust him? He’s invested too much coin and time into us to just throw us away.”

Daenerys didn’t trust the magister as much as Aegon did, but she understood where he came from. He was a friend to their house. If not for Illyrio collecting her and Viserys, she would have been left to wonder the streets. Perhaps dead. It made Dany remember her brother and that made her sad.

The thought made her missed what they were saying when the conversation switched to the dragons. Haldon groaned. “If you can remember your history, boy. The Braavosi aren’t too keen on dragons. You’ll be aware if you looked back at their history. These are the descendants of former slaves from the Freehold. The city is here because they _fled_ the dragons.”

Aegon grumbled. He hated being called boy. “That was the past. They showed themselves to the Freehold centuries ago when the Freehold was still around. After the fall of Valyria, House Targaryen didn’t keep slaves. Why would they have reasons to hate us?”

“Past grievances and Slaver’s Bay.”

“We freed the slaves.”

“And left them to be enslaved by Volantis. Their greatest rival. You basically gave power to the Elephants and the Tigers and the Old Blood.” Aegon’s face went red, but said nothing. “Dragons can be a force for good, but they have a reputation as a force of evil, at least in the minds of the Essosi. The Valyrian Freehold was one of the world’s great powers, powerful and mighty but at the same time feared and hated. With the power of dragons they enslaved Essos and forced its population to work under the Valyrian yoke. Remember that boy.”

“I will,” her nephews words sounded forced.

They continued planning before retiring to their rooms, with Ser Barristan guarding their door. The Targaryens own was the largest and, with large bed – enough for four people – atop a shallow dais. The walls were covered with bright paintings and beside them were weirwood chests. The room was mostly empty, but she knew it was just another sign of wealth in a city such as Braavos.

Aegon unstrapped his sword and dirk and placed it onto the table. After being given Blackfyre, her nephew rarely parted with it. He smiled that flattering smile he had which made Dany want to run her fingers through his hair and kiss that grin off his lips. He unsheathed the sword, weighing it in his hands. “It’s a little too bulky.”

Dany rolled her eyes. “Knights will kill for Valyrian steel and Westerosi lords will sell their daughters into slavery. Yet you complain because it’s a little too bulky? It’s our ancestor’s sword, Aegon.” _Besides, you may grow into it_. Her nephew was just getting taller by the day, almost getting as tall as Jon.

“I know, I know.” He sounded like such a child. Aegon more closely examined it, the hilt, the crossguard and the blade. “The last king to wield this was an Aegon . . . Aegon the Unworthy.” The last part sounded sad. “You know what they say about history. Let’s hope I don’t follow in _his_ footsteps.”

“You won’t be anything like him,” Dany reassured, putting a gentle hand on his. “You’ll be like the first, not the forth.” _We'll follow the conquest and we'll both be conquerors_. 

Her nephew showed a slight smile at that, before pulling away and sliding the sword back in the leather scabbard. “Then let’s hope so. Westeros needs to welcome us. For us to tell them we’re not the Mad King or the other bad kings of old. We need to symbolise a new hope.”

_Isn’t that how we were raised? We explored Essos, not just to escape the usurpers knives but also to learn_. Daenerys giggled. “You make life sound like a fairy tale.” Which it did seem to her. _The lost royals who were thrown out and had to regain what was rightfully theirs. The evil tyrants get thrown down and the people rejoice as the rightful king and queen will bring them a new golden age_. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, even if it sounded unrealistic.

“But it isn’t, your graces,” came a voice near the door. Both Dany and Aegon turned around to see who was once their septa now dressed in garments more suited to the wife of a wealthy merchant or a lady belonging to a lordly house.

Ashara Dayne, Daenerys still couldn’t quite believe it. After all these years . . . Dany had been told that lady Ashara died, throwing herself to her death in grief for her brother and her unborn child. But here she was, standing before them underneath the doorway. It was Ser Barristan who had revealed her identity in the Disputed Lands. First neither she nor Aegon believed it, both thinking it was a jest. Dany even laughed. But from the septa's and Jon’s faces, they soon realised.

That laughter soon turned to anger on her part. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner, Lady Dayne if that is who you truly are?” She must have said that too strongly because what had been their septa looked down and her face reddened. “Why did you lie to us all these years?”

“I apologise, for the both of you. I didn’t mean to cause either of you shock. But . . . but I couldn’t make myself tell either of you. I just couldn’t.” Aegon had been quick to comfort his septa. The young boy who had cried at his injuries or concerns was now doing what she had done. The lady of Starfall sobbed on his shoulder. A quick look at Ser Barristan told Dany how much he wanted to be Aegon at that moment. When she had calmed down, Ashara had sat them down in private and explained everything in greater detail. About the child and the father before being found by Varys where she hide herself and was taught to be a septa before going across the narrow sea to serve as Aegons spiritual tutor. She never told them for she she wanted to forget about her old life and the grief within it, and instead focus on her new life as a soiled septa. 

At the end of her story, Dany supposed it made sense in a way. Lady Dayne was Elia Martell’s handmaiden and confidant. Jon Connington was Rhaegar’s friend. Both would vouch for Aegon when needed. But to Dany, she will never be Ashara Dayne, the beauty of Dorne. She will always be Septa Lemore, the smiling lady of the faith who bathed in the Rhoyne and spoke with a sharp tongue.

“No need too, my lady,” she replied softly, giving a small smile. But it was false. Dany didn’t feel as comfortable around Ashara as she was around Lady Lemore. She felt betrayed. First Ser Barristan and then Ashara Dayne. Both hid their identities from her. She now wondered about the others in their party. “Is there anything you require?”

Lady Dayne lowered her head slightly. “I apologise, but I just overheard you. If you would allow me. . .” Aegon gave her a nod “You are aware that life isn’t a fairy tale, princess.”

“I am aware, my lady.” She then felt embarrassed she would compare it to such. “Apologises . . . but I was just saying how it seemed like it.”

When Lady Lemore asked how, Daenerys explained. “If you put it like that, I can guess so.” Ashara showed an amused smile. “But you’re no longer a maiden, you’re a mother and soon to be queen. I know you love those stories.” She sighed, her face looked sad, likely remembering the son she never had. “We did shelter you . . . the both of you . . . perhaps a bit too much.”

“How have you sheltered us, my lady,” Aegon asked, leaning on the table and flicking away the strand of hair hanging before his eyes. “Compared to the princes and princess in King’s Landing, I very much doubt that.”

“Compared to them and the sons and daughters of the lords of Westeros, you both have greater understanding of how the world works, that is indeed correct. But compared to the smallfolk, you are more sheltered. You know what they suffer, but never experienced it. You never felt starvation, if you were hungry we gave you ours. You were protected, you had a proper maester to teach you the ways of the world and too bind up your wounds. Then there is Illyrio . . . and his pampering of gifts and treats for the both of you.” The last part came out as a soft mumble. “You lack experience in the court that will be essential for ruling your kingdom. That will be your biggest problem. Nothing we do or say will tell you how to navigate that maze.” 

Dany inhaled. Her mind was empty and she didn’t know how to respond to what Lemore said. She had been taught about the court and what it was like whilst Aegon practised with swords, but she never put much thought into it. Only in terms of who to put in the small council. With Magister Illyrio as Master of Coin, Varys continuing his role and Jon Connington as Hand. The rest of the spots will go to people who showed loyalty to the Targaryen cause. “You served Princess Elia as handmaiden . . .  could you teach us more about the court?” The lady of Starfall smiled and agreed.

When Lady Lemore left, Aegon turned to her. “Do you think we were sheltered, Dany?”

“I suppose it’s subjective,” she mumbled. “Remember when we were sailing down the Rhoyne and you would go fishing with the riverfolk and fix nets or hunt whilst I went with Septa Lemore and sew up clothes and such. I doubt those Baratheons in King’s Landing have done likewise or experience anything we have. They haven’t had their fingers bleed or become coarse from work.”

“What about the court?”

Dany couldn’t say. “I only hope that Varys is as loyal to us as Illyrio claims.” _He has too, he rescued you from the sack and protected us all these years_. “If so, he should know who are loyal and can guide us.”

Aegon frowned. “The dwarf . . . Lannister warned me of being too trusting. Don’t trust the cheesemonger or the spider with his web of deceits, he said. Warned me not to trust anyone, even our friends . . . then cited back to Tywin and the king. Those two were friends . . . then Tywin betrayed him.”

_He has a point, an important one_. Yet Daenerys didn’t like it. “The dwarf is planting doubts in your head.” She didn’t like or agree with Aegons persistence that the Lannister spawn could be of help. He was a Lannister after all, and he looked as evil as they acted. She couldn’t trust him, especially of him bragging about killing his own kin. When Daenerys accursed him in the camp, he only smiled that impish mocking grin and said she should be thankful. _If he betrays his family, he will betray us_. “He may want us to be divided. Separate us from our friends and weaken us.”

Her nephew didn’t look convinced. “I said that to Lord Connington as well. He said it was wise to believe that every man is not what he seems. That we have to be wary, but remember that mistrust can be a poison.” He paused. “What do you think?”

Dany was told that after Duskendale, how afterwards her father became paranoid, alienating his friends and allies with his mistrust. He even saw Rhaegar as a threat. Before that, the king had been seen with such promise with the realm rich and prosperous. People said he would later be called Aerys the Wise or Aerys the Great. But mistrust soured his heart. “I suppose we have to find a middle ground. Be cautious, but not let it corrupt us.” 

As the city woke from a rainy night, they walked through the streets of Braavos. A square of sellswords surrounded them, their eyes surveying the many alleys of the city and mail clad hands ready to draw swords at the first sign of danger. Dany turned to Ser Barristan who looked handsome in his new suit of enamelled scales and a thick woollen cloak bleached white. The knight had shaved the beard making him look many years younger and he moved much more elegantly then Arstan ever had. He revealed Septa Lemore’s identity and for that Dany couldn’t decide to thank him or be angry.

The princess tightened the fur lined cloak around herself. It was cold and the canals had ice floating atop the water. Westeros was worse, Jorah claimed. Daenerys was dressed in a wool and silk dress of ivory and white, with a silver broach of three dragons curled up in a circle. She had bathed in scented water and her handmaidens had washed and brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver. “Ser Barristan, you fought beside the Dornish at the Trident, will they support us?” She already knew the likely answer. _They have to_.

“I believe so, princess,” the white knight of the kingsguard replied. “The Dornish will realise that Prince Aegon is alive and will raise their spears. Since Robert’s Rebellion they have demanded vengeance, the Mountains blood and the Lannisters for what they did. Even now, the memory of Princess Elia Martell is still strong, she was well loved and the Dornish are reputed to be stubborn and hot-blooded. I know from my experience of being born to a Marcher lord and serving beside Prince Lewyn Martell as a brother-in-arms. They have refused to take a side in the war, so they should be at full strength.”

“Prince Lewyn Martell . . . he was Doran’s uncle, wasn’t he?” Ser Barristan acknowledged it with a nod. “May I ask what he was like?”

Ser Barristan inhaled the cold air. “Prince Lewyn was a valiant knight, no one could deny his honour. He was a talented fighter and said that it was a sword in hand which detained a man’s worth. A trusted friend and as worthy as anyone could call a kingsguard.”

“And what about my good-uncle?” It was well known that Prince Doran Martell was a cautious man, not doing anything without certainty of victory, always binding his time for when the opportunity presents itself. “What if he doesn’t side with us?” She saw no reason for him not to, but the worry was always there.

“He shouldn’t,” Ser Jorah was quick to inject. He was clad in heavy mail, plate and with his house’s sigil on his green surcoat. He did look like the bear with all his hair. A friend, she was quick to find. Not as much as the original party she went around Essos with, but a worthy companion. “Prince Doran may be cautious, but it's well known that he deeply cares about his family. He will never let his nephew stand alone. But even if he is slow to act and cautious, his people are anything but. Fear not princess, for I see Dorne rising to your side.”

_Then let’s hope_. Their walk was slow and careful until they entered the giant plaza before the Iron Bank. It was a monstrous structure, one of the largest in Braavos. Wide steps led up to the walled compound, large marble and stone pillars ran around the building. The doors were enormous, with a sigil of the bank carved in the hardwood and many people were flowing in and out. _This is it, the Iron Bank. May the seven bless us._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.  
> There will only be one more chapter in Essos before they land in Westeros.


	18. Jon Connington V

He had hated standing in the back as both his wards negotiated with those pompous Braavosi bankers. Twenty sat at the table that rivaled the painted table of Dragonstone, all in silken tunics of greys, purples and blues so dark they were almost black, and sat atop ornate chairs made of dark wood designed to intimidate.

The Iron Bank was polite, but cold and didn’t let anything slip. They probed both Aegon and Daenerys with question after question. Illyrio had given them a list of members who were more likely to be sympathetic to their plight and how to best convince them. For the most part, it seemed to have worked. At least four bankers were easily swayed to the Targaryen’s early on.

But there was one by the name of Nyessor Elyran who - looked too much like Varys for Connington’s liking - was their greatest challenge. An influential member of the bank who had a powerful voice and likened by many to be as tough to breach as the walls of Storm’s End. The plump man kept asking about the chances of payment and how both Targaryens could get the throne. No matter what Aegon or Daenerys came out with, Elyran always found a way to contradict them. That was even before the dragons were mentioned, where the bankers looked at each other awkwardly and brought it up as a cause for concern. It only put them at ease slightly when Princess Daenerys vowed to only use them in Westeros, and that they had no interest in Essos. Yet the bankers were still concerned and it seemed to have set the negotiations back. Jon was just thankful that the dragons were still with the army, nowhere near Braavosi territory otherwise they would have likely left with nothing.

It took the greater part of the day before they even began to get somewhere. While the bank was willing to finance the campaign, they were much less willing to put all their eggs in one basket. It was long and tedious, but eventually the Iron Bank agreed for a higher interest rate. Aegon and Daenerys will assume the debt, with a portion of the gold being paid upfront as a sign of good faith. The rest of their wealth will be placed within the Iron Bank for safe keeping, just like how the greens stored a quarter of the royal treasury during the dance of the dragons. Another hour was spent drawing up the deal, with both parties signing the sprawling contract.

_At least we left on reasonable terms_ , Jon mused with some hope as they left the Iron bank. The thought was bitter however. Like always, Ser Barristan walked behind like both dragons as a shadow. _Be seen but not heard_. The Kingsguard were sworn to keep the secret of the king and only speak when spoken too. Ser Barristan had remained silent throughout even though he looked to want to interject a few times. There was many differences between knights of Westeros and the merchants of the Free Cities.

The lad was tired as they walked back to the lodge but he had a smug look of victory painted on his features. They were both bright, but Jon saw they were both quickly gaining a high ego of themselves. _They started with little but a name and blood, and now own a large army with three dragons. That will make anyone prideful_. It worried him.

Ser Rolly laughed as they walked down the steps. “That was tiring I must say, and I didn’t even do a thing. What do you think lad, want to head to a tavern and drink? Feels like you need it.” He gave the prince a friendly punch on the shoulder.

Aegon chuckled. He just seemed relieved that it was over. “I will admit that my throat is parched.”

Duckfield laughed. “I know a place . . . or a few. The inns in Westeros are nowhere near as luxurious or clean, and the whores know how to keep their mouths shut . . . or open.”

Connington saw the lad wince slightly and declined the last part. _At least my speeches on the Blackfyre rebellions and Aegon the Unworthy were taken in_. For that Jon was happy, just as Daenerys judging from her expression.

When they returned to the lodge, they began to pack up their things for the journey back to Pentos where Daenerys and Aegon wanted to see their child one last time before moving against Westeros. A part of Connington wanted to go straight to Westeros, but a smaller part of him wanted to remain. For eighteen years he'd been in Essos, fighting under the banner of the Golden Company before taking in the Targaryens as his wards. _Almost half my life I’ve been in Essos_. He now feared how much Westeros had changed after his departure.

As they planned further, Jon stared down at the maps showing the Free Cities as well as eastern Westeros: the Crownlands, Dorne, Stormlands and the Vale of Arryn. “No one can stand against us,” Prince Aegon bragged with all the confidence of youth. “What is there to stand against us? The queen regent has been arrested by the very faith she militarised. The self appointed king is but a child and Stannis is far in the north in the barren wilderness with the few men he has left.”

“My prince,” Ser Barristan Selmy responded, his tone cautious. “Stannis Baratheon is a tried and tested commander. He is considered among the best in Westeros. You’ll do well not to dismiss him.”

Jon Connington wasn’t so sure. While his older brother killed his silver prince and fought in battles, Stannis hid in Storm’s End surrounded by the Tyrell army. _What about the Greyjoy Rebellion?_  He fought a fleet battle to be sure, but he doubted Stannis will matter all that much, after all he was far in the North, fighting against Roose Bolton and the other houses. _Let them bleed each other dry. They will be too weak to fight against the true king_.

Aegon was quick to dismiss Stannis Baratheon. “What has he got against us? He follows the red god and he is hated by both the smallfolk and the highborn. Few if any will rise up for him. He has no one.”

_If any hate House Targaryen, they will rise up for House Lannister. They will be the main threat, especially with the power of Casterly Rock and Highgarden_. They had planned the invasion out and to launch the attack where the enemy was their weakest. _Especially if Mace Tyrell loves his daughter so_.

While the servants carried their things back to the ship, Daenerys and Aegon had gone to explore Braavos with Ser Barristan and Duck. Connington had wanted to go with them, but both were strong in their stance that Jon wouldn’t be needed, claiming that Duck and Selmy were enough. _They are older. They are no longer Young Griff and Rohanne._ Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen were different – stronger willed and prideful. But Connington hoped not too much and would listen to his council when needed. They will need a strong hand. Both to get their throne and to keep it.

The exiled lord stood by the ramp of the ship and waited. _I should have gone with them_. For all the loyalty Ser Barristan claimed to have, he switched sides repeatedly. _First to the usurper and then to them. A true Kingsguard serves the king, regardless. He should have died at the Trident, avenging Rhaegar or defending him_. Jon shivered and wrapped the cloak tightly around himself. If the knight decided to betray both royals, Jon wouldn’t be there to stop him. Barristan was old, but still had enough skill in the blade and moved faster than many younger knights. Ser Rolly Duckfield was a reasonable fighter – enough for what he was instructed to do and loyal to the both of them – but wouldn’t stand a chance against a knight like Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Where in the seven hell's are they,” Griff complained as he strode from one side of the ship to the other, keeping a keen look out.

Lady Dayne looked up, her hair blowing in the cold wind. “Princess Daenerys said she wanted to find a house with a red door.”

Jon rolled his eyes. _That girl_. A few times she asked about it, when she was younger. The little princess claimed it was her home. _No it isn’t. Westeros is your home._

Ashara continued, “We’ve been waiting for years. I’m sure you can wait for an hour or so. She wants to find it and when she doesn’t, she’ll come back and we head off straight away.”

Connington had little patience left and was quickly losing it. They were close, he could smell Westeros, he could smell Griffins Roast and the Iron Throne. He was losing all caution, he knew. But he was sick of caution and sick of waiting. “Westeros has never been riper for conquest, yet those two squabble like children.”

“Because they are children,” Lady Lemore said with a shrug. He glanced at her and the Septa sighed. “Their young, Jon. The young tend to wander.”

“The prince is a man grown and I have danced this dance for damn too long. We should head straight to the Disputed Lands.”

“And keep Daenerys away from her babe? She may be soft-spoken, but she won’t hesitate to put you in your place if you try to separate her from her daughter. A women is as deadly as a man when someone comes between her and her children.”

_You don’t know, you were never a mother_ , Jon was about to say, but kept his mouth closed. Lucky for him, both Targaryen’s returned shortly thereafter. Both were laughing and smiling. _At least they’re happy. It may change soon enough_. “What are they?” He looked in the prince’s hand.

Aegon snickered. “Oysters. Brought them from a young girl by the waterfront. Something to eat on the way back.” Dany showed a shy little smile, but had a sparkle in her eyes. 

_Young love_ , Jon thought. _At least the son will love when the father couldn’t_. He hoped it would continue, many marriages started good but soon changed. Jon wondered if it would have been different if Rhaegar married another, like the Lyanna Stark or Cersei Lannister. _“There needs to be three heads, Jon. The dragon must have three heads_ ,” Rhaegar told him in his study, half his beautiful face in darkness and the other half lit up by a dim candle. _There are only two_ , Connington now thought, looking at both of them. _Three dragons, but two riders_.

“So did you find your red door,” Lady Ashara asked with a motherly smile.

Daenerys shook her head, looking disheartened. “No . . . there were a few buildings with red doors, but none of them were the _right_ door.”

Jon had heard her say that story a few times. Red doors and lemon trees. _Not in Braavos_. The climate was wrong and no trees existed in the city beside sentinels. Yet for all these years, he never went to challenge her, letting the girl play with her imagination. _Perhaps a bit too much._ “Ready to head off, little princess, my prince?” 

Dany nodded eagerly. “Pentos awaits.”

After leaving the lagoon of Braavos, both Targaryen’s retired to their quarters. Connington watched Braavos recede into the distance, before turning towards the direction of Westeros. I _taught you to lead. Duck taught you to fight. Septa taught you the faith and Haldon taught you the histories. Lead well my prince. Do your father proud_.

At the Disputed Lands, the griffin tugged at the steel vambraces as his new squire helped him in his armour. Jon tightened the leather straps, yet he still felt it flop around slightly. _I will do well to get these tightened_. He turned to the boy called Maric Waters. The child was diligent, always quick to please, but quite shy. “Get the mirror.” The boy did so, grabbing the polished copper and Jon looked at himself. A dark red gambeson and riveted mail underneath a brigandine, with his house colours and two griffins counterchanged. “Thank you Maric.” The lad gave a shy nod and thanked Jon’s boots. 

Jon missed the feel of solid armour, not the leathers and simple ringmail he had as Griff the sellsword. The prince had offered him full plate, made by the best Qohorik armourers, but the exiled lord had politely declined. Jon knew the disadvantages of full plate that the southern knights wore and unlike his younger self he didn’t want to rush in. Jon Connington would now rather watch over the battle and act when needed. He moved his arms, the mail scrapping against the rerebrace. Enough armour for Westeros, he thought, but too much for Essos, where the heat made him sweat underneath the thick padding. Watching Maric begin to remove the armour reminded Jon of when Aegon was younger and acted a squire. The lad cleaned armour, pried off the rust and oiled everything. Just as a knight, he learned the arts of the sword, mace and axe. But not the lance even though he was a competent rider. His skills with the sword had only improved with Ser Barristan training with him.

When Jon left the pavilion, the combined army of Unsullied and sellswords were busy packing half of their camp and supplies into the ships on the coast. As was the plan, the Golden Company will land first using their superior discipline to create a beachhead for the Unsullied and Lost Legion, then allowing supplies to safely flow into Westeros. After spending time in Essos, Griff had gained a respect for archers that many knights in Westeros lacked. In the right hands, it was as deadly as the sword or hammer. To make sure many made it, Jon had split up the archers of the company into different ships in the chance something happened with the autumn storms in the narrow sea.

He stopped and watched the army train. In the distance he could see slingers from the Legion. “Tolosi, the best slingers in the world,” Myrmello Iranyris bragged one night. “They throw lead balls. They exceed the arrow and knights won’t know what hit them until they fall off their horse.” Jon would admit that he wasn’t used to seeing slings, he’d never seen Tolosi work before but he was both impressed and horrified at the results. They did more damage than bow, severely dented a helm and turned a pig head into a broken mess, it burst apart, sending bits of brain and bone everywhere. Alongside them were the foot soldiers who drilled their lockstep and cavalry galloped in wedge formation; clad in scales and laminar, with bells on their horses and fur cloaks draping their shoulders.

The exiled lord entered Aegon's tent where the prince was being outfitted. Connington smiled slightly. Aegon looked very much a king in his black armour. It reminded him so much of Rhaegar. The lad was clad in black plate, with a three headed dragon made of rubies and the black metal was engraved with scales, just like his father’s armour. Underneath the lads arms was his helm – as one of the squares were helping tighten the bevor – a black sallet helm with a pair of dragon wings extended from the sides.

“My lord,” the lad said . . . no, not a boy. He was a man. A king. “What do you think?” He shifted in the heavy armour. It rattled and the squire complained under his breath. His master couldn't help but smile.  

“You look like a true king. Your father will be proud if he could see you now.” Aegon's face saddened at that. _He really looks a king now. When the lords and smallfolk see him, there will be no doubt in their hearts that he'll be the one to save them_. “Your mother as well.”

_"He’ll be a good king, Jon_ , _"_   Princess Elia had told him once, holding baby Aegon in her arms as the she laid in bed. _"He’ll look like his father and do great things. I just know it_."

Aegon tried to force a smile. “You should be wearing plate. You’re a knight.”

Jon looked down. “Suppose I am. But I won’t tire as easily and we still have to sail across the narrow sea. May be best that you remove the plate until we land.” Not that Jon wanted him in battle. Even now the prince was too inexperienced. While Jon went and attacked the surrounding castles, Aegon will wait at camp, safe and secure.

Aegon chuckled. “I suppose so.” He moved around in it. “Feels awkward though . . . but I suppose I’ll get used to it.”

“It was made to fit you.”

His ward smiled. “It was.” It faltered before he put a hand on Connington shoulder. “Jon . . . I want to say how much I'm grateful what you've done . . . what you've always done for both me and Daenerys, and continue to do. I know I . . . I haven’t always been appreciative enough for what you have done for us, I will admit. But I’m grateful, Jon.”

Jon lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I did what I needed to do.” _I could never have asked for a worthier son_. “I appreciate your words, my prince.”

Aegon smiled once more. “We should head off soon. I wish not to wait any longer then needed.” He began to remove his gauntlets and ordered the squires to help detach his armour. “I wish not to drown in this in the chance the ship sinks. What a story that will be. The prince who drowns.”

“Best not jest about the sea, my prince,” came the voice of the bastard of house Velaryon. Jon turned to Aurane Waters. He had the silvery hair which marked his Valyrian descent, but instead of purple, his eyes were grey-green. From a distance, he reminded Jon of Rhaegar, his silver prince. But the bastard’s face was narrower and wasn’t nearly as beautiful. “The sea is a dangerous mistress and the gods are all cruel jesters.” He was a bastard but carried himself around like a pirate lord and very much looked the part. His clothes sewn with cloth-of-gold and silver, his wide brimmed hat sprouted exotic feathers of black and white.

“That may be very much the case, Waters.” The bastard tensed at the word. “But I’m sure the gods can hold off smiting anyone for now. Even they need to rest every once-and-a-while.”

The self-declared Lord of the Waters chuckled. Jon could see the sparkle in the man’s eyes, even if they were handsome and he felt himself stir, the lord of griffins knew to be cautious with the pirate. He betrayed Cersei, and even though he hated the queen, Jon knew it was a warning for the man’s potential loyalty. _Words are wind and actions display a man’s heart._ “Lord Waters, may I ask when your ships will be ready?”

The pirate prince turned to him with the speed of a viper. “Shortly. Just having to pack those elephants of yours. I never believed I would see those massive grey beasts. I heard stories but I always thought they’ll be bigger.”

_Still large enough to spread terror through warhorses and strong enough to smash a line of infantry_. “No need to fear, Waters. They will do for Westeros.” _But once the dragons are big enough to ride, elephants won’t be near as needed_. Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar were getting ever larger and eating much more; laying waste to entire herds of animals. The more they ate, the larger they got and the larger they got, the more they ate. Daenerys believed they could soon start to bear their weight soon enough, but for all size, their bodies are light and not that strong. _Not yet, but soon_.

They left the Disputed Lands and Essos at sunset, leaving the five thousand Unsullied and Lost Legion behind. Jon looked out towards Westeros as he stood atop the deck of Lord Aurane Waters own flagship, a massive dromond once called _Lord Tywin_ , but now renamed _Pride of Driftmark_. Jon stared at out the collection of ships that formed their fleet. The dromonds of the stolen royal fleet, the pirate ships of Cossomo the Golden alongside giant cogs and ships from Slaver’s Bay. _Eighteen years, eighteen bloody long years. But I have returned to you Westeros, and I bring the king_.

The roar of the black dragon filled his heart with both joy and fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally heading to Westeros. Took eighteen years and eighteen chapters to set off from Essos. I will easily admit that these chapters (especially the early ones) were very slow. But the next chapters will hopefully improve. I will also introduce more POV characters.  
> As always, comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	19. Aegon VII

Westeros was his home, his birthplace. But for Aegon it felt empty, cold and unpleasant.

The prince stared out into the grey sea as the waves were kicked up by the strong winds, smashing against the rocks jutting up from the stormy waters. _At least I know where it got its name from_.

Their landing in the Stormlands was less than pleasant to say the least. An autumn storm had split the fleet up, throwing their ships in all different directions. Of their fleet, only ten ships had made it to their main destination in Cape Wrath, six of them carrying mostly men and the others carrying supplies. Waters had assured him that the fleet wouldn’t be destroyed and that it would most likely just be scattered. The fleet was crewed by experienced hands who knew how to handle the regular storms which infested Shipbreaker Bay. Aegon however was less convinced. _A simple set back_ , he had thought. He just hoped that the same wouldn’t happen to Daenerys and the rest of their force who were still in Essos, waiting.

“My prince,” called out Harry Strickland who sat atop a pale grey gelding. The captain-general of the Golden Company wore a mix of scale and ringmail, with a thick cape of cloth-of-gold lined with the fur of a Volantene lion. Aegon didn’t like the man who he saw as craven. “Surely you don’t want to stand here. There is nothing.”

“Nothing besides the sea and wind,” the prince replied as he stood on the edge of a steep cliff and looked down, his hair fluttering. It was infinitely more exciting than remaining at camp, where he was left with half of a quarter of the men who made it. Jon had left with quarter to take back his former home. _Leaving me here with Harry and Gorys, the camp followers and the supplies_. He had begged and then demanded that he be taken, to assist in taking Griffins Roost. He was the future king, a conqueror. Things were expected of him and staying in camp wasn’t one of them.

“That I can see, my prince.” The captain-general shifted awkwardly. “But beside that, there is nothing here. We should head back.”

Aegon shot a glance at the commander. Aegon may be the one who they claimed to fight under, but it was Jon they followed, even Harry followed his commands, if dragged kicking and screaming all the way. While he respected Jon Connington for all he’d done, the man acted too much like an overprotective father. _Will he continue even after I get the throne?_ The thought made him shudder. Gazing back out into the bay, he saw the fog rolling in. “How did you become captain-general? I’m curious how one such as yourself got into the rank, especially as your predecessors were more . . . different breeds of men, to say the least.”

Harry Strickland tensed a bit. “I was paymaster of the company. That gives one a skill when it comes to numbers, a useful skill to have. More so then skills in swords or tactics. I’m more of a strategic thinking, I like to believe.”

“Strategy? Like commanding men.”

“That’s tactics. Strategy will be the long term objective. The grand strategy, so as what we need to achieve and how to do that. Such as the logistics of our army as well as mobilisation. Not the battles, they are tactics, something I leave to my subordinates. May I say to you, my prince, that patience and prudence is often mistaken for cowardice and nonaggression. Under my leadership, the Golden Company has gotten richer due to negotiating better contracts and better supplied and organised. My predecessor, while better at leading men and more popular with them, wasn’t as good when it comes to negotiation. A commander in charge of the whole company needs to know more skills then just swinging a sword.”

Aegon was intrigued, but from what Jon had told him he wasn’t too convinced. It didn’t help that Harry acted very craven and didn’t look a warrior. “If you say so.”

He looked out once more at the sea before deciding to return to camp, both his Kingsguard following behind: Ser Rolly and Ser Barristan. When they landed on the shore, Aegon had offered Duck a chance to be in his kingsguard and wear the white cloak. The commoner turned knight had eagerly accepted it. Jon had strongly voiced his objections to his decision, saying that it would be better to have sons of lords and great knights of renown. Aegon had refused. He will be king, and would rather have loyal swords beside him. “Duck will die for me if need be,” he had said, “That is what I require of my kingsguard. Not ones of dubious loyalty. The kingslayer was both a knight of great renown and a son of a great lord, yet I would never trust him to guard a loaf of bread.” Jon had finally backed off when Ser Barristan had interfered and supported the prince’s decision, pointing out it was similar to Ser Duncan and Aegon the Unlikely.

Their camp was beside the sea. The ships had left to scout the coast and bring back any more men who had washed up along the coast. The dragon and golden banners were flapping in the strong wind and it seemed that the camp was empty besides a small detachment of men and camp followers. When Jon had set off for Griffins Roost, Tristan Rivers had set off for House Morrigen at Crow’s Nest and Laswell Peake for Rain House, home of House Wylde.

“How is it,” Aegon demanded the Golden Company paymaster as he entered the command tent, his kingsguard following behind with their thick white cloaks stained by rain. “Have we received word of our lost men?”

The thin man was twirling his pointed black beard, a smirk forming on his pale lips. The paymaster pointed to the map of the Stormlands. “We’ve encountered some more of the lads. Three hundred, with horse and three elephants. They are on the way here now.”

Aegon was happy that there were some elephants now. In the Disputed Lands, they were given heavy armour considered to be impenetrable to both spears and arrows. On their backs will be towers full of archers who will rain death upon his enemies. “Good. Do you know how long they are away?”

“A few hours. Their outriders rode in just after you left.”

“Good, anything else?”

The paymaster grinned. “Message that Griffins Roost is ours—”

“What was the cost,” Harry quickly injected. “How many men?”

“Five, our lord Connington claims. But the castle is under our control _and_ he wants us to come to him. He thinks it’s better for us to get behind strong walls instead of the open.”

“This will be the best, my prince,” Ser Barristan spoke up. “I’ve seen Griffins Roost before, it is atop a lofty crag, with three cliffs dropping to the waters of the bay. It’s very defendable. It will be best if we use it as a base.”

The prince nodded. “We wait for the men to arrive before we head off.” _The faster we act, the less time the Lannister’s have time to prepare_. He wagered they will soon know, and send a force against them. _So best form a strong position and send a message to Daenerys_.

Thankfully he didn’t have to wait long for that part of the Golden Company to arrive, with their horse, three times as many men and three elephants lumbering behind. The Targaryen prince smiled as he stared at those beasts, especially when two had a mix of plate and ringmail armour. “It was rough journey,” the Ghiscari commander called Ghazdan said. “The storm was harsh, but we captured a castle for you, my prince.” Aegon nodded. Ser Barristan was quick to ask if any ravens took flight. There was only a handful of archers amongst their ranks. Jon had told them to kill any ravens if they were seen for they spread messages. “A few took flight,” the serjeant answered. “A few were shot down, but one managed to make it past us.” The prince grit his teeth. “Hopefully the black creature won’t get far. I heard that the skies here are full of predator birds.”

“Let’s hope. Rest and eat. We’re heading off to Griffin’s Roost as soon as we can.” Whilst that was being done, Aegon visited the dwarf who was bound in his tent. “How do you feel to be back, Lannister,” he questioned, staring down at what looked to be a beggar before him. The dwarf drank his fill in the Disputed Lands, drinking more then what Aegon thought a full grown man let alone a man of his stature could drink. But when they had sailed, Jon had demanded that Lannister only drink water and nothing else.

“Just kill me,” the halfman replied, his face deep inside the mound of soiled hay. 

“There is plenty of time for that, my lord.” The prince knelt down.

The dwarf rose his overly large head and licked his lips. “ _Lord_ , how much I miss that title. To go from hand of the king, _too this_ , laying on a pile of straw soaked with my vomit and piss. I think a lord at least deserves fresh bedding every once and a while.”

The prince forced a slight smile. “It seems your stature scares the men. But fear not. It won’t be long now. We’re moving forward, to Griffin’s Roost.”

Tyrion showed a sly smile. “I scared my sister all my life, so there maybe something in what you say. But Griffin’s Roost? A small keep for a landed knight. Not much of a prize for the famous Golden Company, if I must say.”

“No need to worry, Lannister. This is just one step of many.” He didn’t know what the next step was, but the Stormlands will fall to them. _Take the usurpers land as he took mine_. Then they will match towards King’s Landing and retake the rest of the realm. “But tell me, Lannister. What would you do? How would you proceed?” He thought to at least humour the alcoholic.

His mismatching eyes wondered to the tent entrance before sitting up, his binds restricting him. “Like I said before, Dorne. You’re Doran’s nephew, and I doubt the Martell’s will be willing to let their family stand and fight and die. Especially after what happened to your uncle Oberyn. They are hot blooded and they want vengeance, for Elia and her daughter and _son_. Many will take any chance to avenge her against my family.”

Aegon frowned. “I am Aegon Targaryen.”

The dwarf tilted his head. “If that is what you say.”

The prince stood up briskly. _Jon won’t tolerate that_.

Tyrion Lannister continued. “Doran Martell would likely want to meet you, with his own eyes. But he will likely send a messenger to speak on his behalf. The Dornish are among the best allies you can get.”

“What about the other houses? The Vale, the Stormlands? Who will rise up for us?” Tyrion claimed he needed to know more, but said that the Crownland houses would likely be supporters and that Darry would likely rise up . . . if it wasn’t extinct. “Have you got any suggestions, on how to deal with your family?” _From the way he speaks of them, you’ll think they're utter fools_.

The dwarf pushed himself up in a more comfortable position. “Send my sweet sister a message, tell her your intentions. Tell her how you came back from the dead and come to save the realm from her tyranny or just say you want to fuck her. I don’t care what you put.” Aegon frowned. “But make sure I’m included in it.”

“Why?”

“Because my sweet sister will turn irrational once she finds out I’m involved with your little Targaryen restoration. She’ll get angry and anger makes her stupid. I much prefer her angry and stupid to composed and cunning. As should you.”

Aegon ordered the binds to be removed and they set off. The Golden Company packed most of their tents and left behind a small token force in case any more came back to the landing point. The travel took four days before the Roost appeared before them. The castle was smaller than he expected, standing atop a lofty crag of dark red stone, with the bay on three sides. The only way in and out was narrow and protected by a gatehouse. It would hinder any attack and leave attackers exposed to archers, spears and stones. It certainly looked safer than camp.

Aegon pressed into his horse and galloped forward. The Golden Company stood by the hastily repaired gate. “My prince,” one said bowing his head, Aegon recognised him as one of the vanguard who went ahead with Homeless Harry. “The commanders are inside. Waiting for you.” The prince dismounted, handed a guard the reins and walked in. This was the first castle of many he will enter. Already he could tell the differences with the palaces of Essos and wondered what the inside would look. _One is designed for defence and the other is for comfort. Which is the Red Keep?_

Jon Connington was waiting beside the entrance to the keep, the officers of the Golden Company forming a crescent around him. “Escort his grace to my solar. At once,” he commanded like when he was Griff and Aegon was still a child. Without waiting, the griffin lord turned around and strode in.

The prince frowned. _I am not a child to be commanded as you see fit_. He had just arrived at the castle and he wasn’t going to jump straight in after riding through the wet countryside. He turned to Barristan. “Tell me, ser. Is this castle sound enough?”

“Enough to hold back an army twenty times our number,” the aged knight replied, his face being covered by a silver helm shaped in the likeness of a dragon, with an outstretched wing on either side. “A good start, but we need more castles to show the realm you are a proper potential king. This isn’t Essos. The lords here respect strength.”

_So I need a greater prize to turn their eyes_. He really wanted the Stormlands under his control before Daenerys arrived with the rest of the army. “That will be done.” Aegon entered the keep, but instead of following the men to Jon’s solar, he explored – much to the annoyance of his guard who claimed it was in bad faith to keep his host waiting. He found both Harry and Flowers in the feasting hall, jesting with the men as they drank the wine brought up from the cellars. When they noticed him, they stood up. “Sit,” was the reply. “But some wine wouldn’t be that bad.” A serving girl rushed to fill him with a glass of dark red liquid that tasted too sweet for his tongue. “Tell me what the plans are and what has been going on?”

The bastard of Cider Hall grinned. “Better an’ better. Even though our fleet was split up in the storm, they’ve found their way around the land an’ been taking castles left and right. Like Estermont, but we’ve got lads likely all across the bloody shores.”

“Not that will be a problem,” Harry quickly added. “We’ve ordered the fleet to scout around and find any remnants and bring them back to the landing site. We’ve now got the greater part of Cape Wrath.”

Aegon bit his lip, tasting some blood. “Then let’s hope that our fleet is mostly in one piece.” They will be needed to take Dragonstone and King’s Landing, as well as transporting the rest of the men. “What plans do you have now? I’m sure you’ve thought what our next course of action will be.”

Flowers gulped down some wine. “The griffin wants Storm’s End.” That caught the lad’s interest. “Aye, prove our strength to Westeros, take the impenetrable castle under the banner of Stannis Baratheon. He claims that it would do best and will be the perfect replacement for this, but its capturing it which will be hard.” The bastard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But if anyone has the chance to, it’s us.”

Harry disagreed. “No one has ever took it by storm. _Nobody_. Connington says guile, but didn’t say anything other than that.”

Aegon nodded weakly. _Storm’s End will be a fair prize for us. The usurpers home, with fertile soil and well defendable. If we capture the castle, it will send shock waves across Westeros and will make potential allies jump to our cause_. “I agree with this.”

“But the cost,” Harry Strickland objected. “No one has ever taken it before.”

“Then we shall be the first,” Aegon smiled. “No one managed to conquer the Seven Kingdoms until the first Aegon proved them wrong. We shall prove Westeros wrong when they say Storm’s End is impenetrable.”

Flowers chucked. “The boys got fire and ambition inside him. The dragon is what he is.”

Strickland tried to advise Aegon against it, but the lad refused. When he finished his drink and had a quick snack, Aegon took his leave and explored the keep, touching the stone and looking at the bright paintings and murals on the walls and ceiling which showed the heroes and great events in the houses past. When Aegon finally decided he was done looking around, he visited Jon in his solar. His carer looked furious at his entrance. Aegon put on his most charming smile and said, “Lord Connington, I like your castle.” It was different from a palace, but it did have a certain charm, especially overlooking everything.

Jon’s face softened. “As do I, your grace. Please be seated. Ser Rolly, we don’t have any further need for you now.”

When Ser Duck looked to leave, Aegon ordered he remain. “No, I want Duck to stay.” Connington’s face tightened and the prince sat by the roaring fire. “We’ve been talking to Strickland and Flowers. They told of your planned attack on Storm’s End.” He smiled. _Remove an unpopular faction, undermining both the Tyrell’s and Lannister’s_.

Jon gritted his teeth. “And did Homeless Harry persuade you to delay it?”

“He was against it, thinking that we should just have a token force to besiege the castle.” Aegon sat up. “But I’m not. Harry’s an old maid, isn’t he?” _He knows his coins, but we need speed and strength. Harry has neither_. “You have the right of it, my lord. I do want the attack to go ahead, but with one change . . . I will lead.” _If I was to remain in the rear with the supplies, what kind of leader would I be? Daeron the Young Dragon led his army from the front. I should as well, inspire the men to fight for me, not hide away like I did in Essos_.

Jon looked perplexed for a moment, as if his mind was trying to process it. “No. I won’t allow it.”

The prince frowned and stood up, his chair scrapping against the stone. “And why is that, _my lord?”_

“You’ve never seen Storm’s End before, you’ve never seen the walls and you’ve never seen how strong it is. I have. You’re too inexperienced to fight.”

“When will I be experienced enough,” Aegon raised his voice. “When I’m old and crooked? _No_. I’m sick of waiting, I’m sick of hiding and I’m not a coward. I’ve hid since I was born, hiding from the lions and the stags. The dragon shall no longer hide.” 

Jon’s pale blue eyes looked up at him. The lord sighed and filled a cup to the brim. “But you will hide.” Aegon grit his teeth, and Connington continued. “We can’t take Storm’s End by storm, not like this, not now.” He lifted up a letter with a wax stamp. “We will break the siege of Storm’s End, freeing the Baratheon’s from the roses—”

“You can’t . . . you can’t. The Baratheon’s were the ones who . . .”

“Let me finish, Aegon. We relieve the siege outside, pretending to be Stannis loyalists. Before we headed off I wanted flaming stag banners and have packed them. They will be handed out to the Golden Company. This is guile. The castle opens its gates for us and we storm in.”

“You can’t,” Aegon replied as he stepped back. “This is wrong . . . dishonourable—”

“What they did to your family was dishonourable,” Jon Connington stood up, his face dark. “How they killed your father, mother and sister was dishonourable. Realise lad that blood will be on your hands, just as it is on mine.”

“But this . . . it’s against—”

“The gods are not just, Aegon. The kingslayer killed Aerys and sat on the throne whilst Elia Martell and Rhaenys were killed. You will be king, you must do as you must. Not what you believe is right. It’s doing what is needed, as king you should do it, regardless of the cost.”

Aegon stared at his foster father like he was looking at him for the first time. _Is this the man who raised me?_ Aegon didn’t want to think it. _These are . . . Baratheon’s and their loyalists . . . the ones who killed my family_. He inhaled and looked up at his foster-father. “Will it work?” He hated saying it, he felt sick in his stomach but either this or starve the castle out, taking time and resources away from the campaign as winter worsened.

Connington nodded. “Aye. It will work.”

“Then tell me how.”

Storm’s End was visible in the distance. The scouts under Maar were correct. Before them was only a token force seeming to number around a thousand. The camp itself was fortified, but not to the standard of the Targaryen army. A palisade wall and ditch separated the camp and the castle to protect against sorties. All their defences pointed at Storm’s End, leaving their rear exposed.

Aegon stared down from the tree line, he was atop a black courser protected with black barbing underneath a dark caparison. He just hoped Balerion wouldn’t appear. The black dragon was spotted above them a few times recently, mostly reserved to hunting near the sea, thankfully away from Storm’s End. _Hopefully he won’t head towards the smell of blood_.

As was the plan, Aegon was stripped out of his finely crafted plate and into something more fitting for Young Griff the sellsword’s sons. Padded leather with ringmail and a full helm. Griff too was dressed in his old sellsword garbs with his hair receiving a fresh layer of blue dye. Behind them stood the Golden Company, flying the flaming heart banners of Stannis Baratheon as well as the companies own. Jon hoped that whilst the Tyrells suspected their true intensions, the besieged will be clueless.

Aegon was tightening and relaxing his grip on the reins. Feeling both a nervousness and an uneasy feeling in his gut. The pre-battle rush, Jon had told him. It heightened his senses, he could feel it, in anticipation for the battle to come.

With the sound of a trumpet, the air was set alight with the trails of flaming arrows. Most of the flames were doused mid-flight, but the few that reached their target hit the linen tents. Some burst into flames, but not as much as he hoped. After the initial barrage, the archers of the Golden Company loaded their bows and crossbows with standard arrows and shot them at the chaotic Tyrell army.

“ _CRUSH THE ROSES!_ ” was shouted in the various accents and dialects of Westeros and Essos before the heavy cavalry charged. The formation started loose, but quickly condensed, forming a wedge with Aegon at the tip. Under his arm was his lance and on either side of him were his Kingsguard and others. The sunlight flashed on the edges of their lances and helms; the golden banner of the company and the burning stag rippling around him. They flew towards the Tyrells with the thunder of hundreds of hooves. Arrows whizzed above him, peppering the roses with well-aimed shots. The arrows all fell at once, sharpened steel digging into mud, shields and men. 

His horse called Nightmare whined. She was a fast horse, but the armour slowed her down – much more with an armoured man riding her – even if it protected her. A few arrows were shot their way. Aegon kept his head down and shield high. Many shrugged off the arrows, but others weren’t so lucky.

The token force was still preparing their formations before them, their nobility shouting commands as the levies formed a line of short spears and kite shields. “ _LANCE!_ ” The Tyrells in front of Aegon formed a hedgehog bristling with steel, their shield painted with a golden tree and the sigils of other Reach houses. _For you Daenerys, for you Rhaenys_. Another trumpet blared and the horses charged straight into the wall of shields like a steel fist. Many horses died, long polearms piercing their chests and necks. But the thin wall of spears and shields collapsed under the heavy weight. Once that happened, it turned into a slaughter. The lightly armoured and disorganised men of the Tyrell army couldn’t match professional cavalrymen encased in heavy mail, who encircled isolated pockets.  

Aegon turned his bleeding mount around and saw the Tyrell line buckle under the weight. He still had the ash lance, or at least half. The other half was partially lodged in a shield and the man behind it. Many of the light horse continued towards the archers who had thrown down their bows and routed. Aegon wheeled his mount around, unsure where to go. Knowing his broke lance was no good, he threw it away and pulled out his sword. Aegons breathing was heavy and his casing held in all his heat. His entire body was sweating and lacked for breath.

Yet he felt alive . . . so very alive. Any fear had left him. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl and he felt nothing. Aegon couldn’t help but laugh, a dry croaky sound.

Around him men screamed and cursed and begged and died. A soldier with grapes on his tabard charged forward. “ _For Queen Margaery_ ,” he yelled, his sword held high. Aegon barely rose his shield before the sword came down, the blade lodging itself in wood. The Targaryen prince swung to the shield to the side, not allowing the man to pull his blade out and thrusted his sword into the exposed neck. “For Daenerys,” was Aegons reply, he never heard his own words. When the soldier collapsed, he turned to another opponent, pushing his horse into a charge and smashed his sword into the kettle helm of another who loomed over a dying knight.

The battle was going smoothly, a steady stream of Tyrells were fleeing the battle, their few cavalry overpowered and their archers nowhere to be seen. “ _For Lord Renly!_ ” Aegon barely turned around before being charged by a dismounted knight, swinging a morning star above his head. Aegon just barely got his shield up – exploding in shards of wood and paint. He gasped, the pain spreading throughout his body like wildfire – like his arm shattered from the force. The knight didn’t remain upright for long. Duck charged at him, throwing the noble to the ground. The man just barely looked up when the horse reared before slamming down on his head like a hammer with iron hooves.

Aegon gave his friend and protector a quick nod. Underneath the helm, his face twisted. The pain from the hit was pulsing through his arm in tune with his rapid heartbeat. He could feel it swell against the padding.

Shouts filled the air as more and more Tyrells dropped their weapons and surrendered, but Aegon couldn’t hear it above the shouts of bloodlust or the screaming of the dying. The prince rode around the field, his mount trampling over the dead and dying who laid on the blood slick mud. Nightmare was bleeding from many wounds from where spear points had slashed her, but kept strong besides the distressed sounds. “It’s over now,” he reassured, hoping. But another part wished it wasn’t the case. He loved the feel of power and strength during the fight. It was like it woke the dragon within him. In the centre of the field stood Jon, looming over a wounded knight. Aegon galloped towards him. “Griff,” Aegon called. “Looks like the battle is ours.” _A fine victory, one they’ve hopefully watched from the walls_.

“Aye. The battle is ours . . . for now. But many have fled the battle. Likely heading to King’s Landing as we speak. Lad, do you know who this is?” Aegon didn’t. “Lord Mathis Rowan. Lord of Goldengrove. You’ve lost, submit to us, ser.”

Lord Mathis Rowan looked up, a heavy gash across his face - weeping profusely. “I’ll yield,” his voice thick with pain. 

Aegon clinched, his arm throbbing. “What do we do with the prisoners?”

Griff turned around, sellswords grabbed hold of Lord Rowan and pulled him to the others. “Knights and lords will be ransomed. The smallfolk can expect a quick death.”

Aegon glanced at the smallfolk being taken prisoner. All huddled off in the centre of the field as the foot soldiers of the company approached, with the elephants. The prince bit his tongue. “They can fight for us if need be. They should be allowed to choose between us or the roses.”

“Aegon,” Jon replied, his voice stern. “Nobles will give us ransoms and serve as useful hostages. What will the smallfolk give us?”

“Spears.” Aegon turned to him, removing his helm. His face was coated with a sticky sheen of sweat and dyed hair stuck to it in clumps. “Give them the chance to switch to our side. They can fill our ranks, boosting our numbers. But if they refuse, you can do as you wish.” _At least I gave them the choice. Who else can claim that?_  

“Aye, my prince. But be cautious for this. They may switch sides if we face another army. They will only side with us if they fear us and think we’ll win. As such, they _will_ betray is if they have the opportunity.”

“Then let’s make sure they don’t have the opportunity.” Aegon turned to look at Storm’s End, with its massive curtain wall of pale grey stone and the massive drum of a tower behind it. “What now?”

Griff looked to the castle. “I’ll send a message to state we’re friends. I doubt they they’ll believe us, at least not without suspicion. But I wager they’ll be hungry and we _do_ have plenty of food to offer them.” 

Young Griff turned to the walls. “Do whatever you need.” _This castle needs to fall, by any means_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter didn't disappoint.  
> Constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	20. The Caged Lion

She stared at the two bodies beneath the Rookery. One was her uncle and the other was the Grandmaester. The useless Pycelle had his face pillowed against a thick tome strained with dry blood. His spotted bald head had a bloody gash, reminding her of a cracked egg. Her uncle, the late Ser Kevan Lannister was leaning against the window seat, two bolts impaling his body and a dozen wounds covered his neck, face and belly. Underneath all the blood, Cersei Lannister almost didn’t recognise him. There was a look of absolute terror on the knight’s features.

It all made Cersei feel sick, especially from where both of them had emptied their bowels. _You’ll think they could at least have the decency to hold it in_. But not even her father was capable of that. The palms of her hands stung and were sticky from where she pressed her nails into the soft white skin. “How can this be?”

Qyburn was standing beside her, dressed in immaculate maester robes, but instead of grey it was as white as the cloaks of the kingsguard. Whorls of gold decorated his hem, sleeves and high collar as well as a golden sash that tightly wrapped around his person. “My queen, it seems to be that your dear uncle has been shot with two crossbow bolts and stabbed more than a dozen times. Grandmaester Pycelle on the—”

“I know _how_ they died,” the queen snapped, “I’ve lost my hair, not my wits.” _And my pride – before the whole city_. Their faces still came to her every night. Their bellowing laughter. All their faces like the demons her septa had once hold her about, waiting to drag her into the seven hells. The way the children pointed, the jests and the looks women gave her . . . “But how can this have happen in the first place. Who’s done this?” She looked at her uncle and saw the two crossbow bolts. _Two bolts, like father . . ._

“My informers are searching for who’s responsible. I asked the guards and they saw no one enter or leave. Ser Kevan Lannister had no one with him after the small council. But witnesses claim they heard our former Grandmaester request for guards. They overheard him say how he felt unsafe with the Tyrells.”

_Of course. It has to be those roses. They smell sweet to hide the horrid scent underneath. They’re working with the dwarf. They want revenge for me revealing their harlot of a daughter_. That would explain the crossbow bolts and that made Cersei feel exposed suddenly. She could hear it, the light steps of Tyrion running through the walls like a rat. He’s always been sneaky and processed a certain cunning. The queen thought she dealt with him when she destroyed the Tower of the Hand with wildfire. _No . . . he fled like the rodent he is. He’s somewhere else, watching me, watching Tommen and planning his next move_.

There were other people who had any reason to, she was sure. Stannis Baratheon was a traitor and would kill her son, but he was far in the north with what meagre strength he had, and still to deal with House Boltons; few if any were loyal to him and no one loved him. The Nights Watch meanwhile was going to be augmented by a hundred red cloaks after turning traitor, or that was the plan before Kettleblack ruined it by being too enthusiastic in confessing to bedding her. Where he was tortured and confessed to numerous other things like killing the previous High Septon. _Fools, all of them_. She was told by her father that if you wanted something done properly, you have to do it yourself.

“Ser Boros, where is my son?” She could just imagine it, Tyrion distracting her whilst he sneaked in through a secret passage way. He did threaten to rape her peaceful cub before killing him.

“In his chambers, Your Grace, sleeping.” Ser Boros was one of the worst guards and she wondered why her father didn’t just execute him. Many times Cersei thought of freeing up the space for someone better. The knight turned food taster had a flat nose and heavy jowls threatening to engulf his face, and usually leaned on the walls, like his own legs couldn’t support his weight.

“Who is protecting him?”

“Ser Meryn Trant, my queen.”

_Fools. A paper shield. That is are all are. If only Jamie was here . . ._ “Make sure my son is protected. Have the kingsguard inside his chamber to watch him and make sure there are red cloaks outside the door. Don’t let anyone in besides me.” _No one is to be trusted. Ser Loras Tyrell is another who needs to be removed_. She would have to send someone to Dragonstone to place a pillow over his mouth. The maidens will cry that is true, but they would cry once he returns and death’s more merciful to one such as himself. “I want men to find where my brother came from. He’s still here, hiding in the walls. I want all available men to go inside the tunnels and find him. The king isn’t safe.”

“Your brother, the dwarf?”

“No, the tall one. Who do you think you bloody halfwit,” Cersei growled. “He’s still here, like a cockroach.” _He’s in the walls of the Red Keep, planning his revenge. No. That won’t happen. I’ll tear apart every brick of this castle if I have to_.

Cersei Lannister was tired the next morning. The queen barely slept and requested that Qyburn give her some sweetsleep to help her slumber. Throughout the night, she could hear the tiny patter of feet within the walls and in the corner of her eyes she could see slimy dark ones which vanished as soon as they appeared.

At sunrise the queen broke her fast on olives and bread coated with honey, which she washed down with sweetened wine. As with the arrangement with the High Sparrow, Cersei was served and dressed by three novices between the ages of twelve and sixteen. The girls were dressed in soft white woollens, all having an unworldly innocence to them – especially one fair haired, blue eyed girl who looked like the maiden herself. Every seven days they were replaced by the High Sparrow lest Cersei corrupt them with her sin. The three girls brought her food, filled her glass and draw her bath. All the while a septa – whose face was like a shrivelled raisin – observed them with two black pits for eyes, watching everything like the Father above.

The water was scalding hot, but it made her feel clean after all the smallfolk stared at her walking naked through the city. _I’m their queen. They should have averted their eyes._   _What would father do if the was there?_   He wouldn’t allow it to happen, Cersei was certain. If it did, Tywin would round up the whole city and butcher them like the vermin they are. The lion is to be feared, not ridiculed. _Yes . . . that is a smart idea._ Her father told her that the House of Lannister needed to be a house to be feared. If they weren’t feared, small houses would rise up and take what rightfully belongs to the lions.

When Cersei did step up from the water, her pale skin was shining but she didn’t feel clean as they patted her down. She felt soiled, used and ugly. Stretch marks lined her belly from the three lions she had borne. Her breasts weren't as firm as they once had been in her youth and now sagged against her chest. Walking through the city had caused bruises and cuts to sprout up on her soft white flesh. _I’m a queen, yet they looked at me like a piece a meat_.

In the corner of her eye stood the hag. The septa was in the shadows but all Cersei could see was the face of Maggy the frog. “ _Queen you shall be_ ,” she hissed through a toothless mouth, her gums all slimy and soft and bleeding. Malice filled her crusted eyes. “ _Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear_.”

The novices dressed her in a simple dress of red wool with little in the way of embroidery. It was buttoned up to her throat and a hood covered her shaved head. The novices and the septa were serving the Sparrow, she knew and will report back to him about everything that happened. Cersei Lannister needed to play the repentant queen, at least for now.

Outside the door to her chambers stood the giant: Ser Robert Strong. Eight feet tall he stood: his legs and arms as thick as trees, a chest like a bear and shoulders of an ox. The giant wore full plate enamelled white over gold mail and a heavy white cloak held in place by a pair of golden seven pointed stars. A great helm fully engulfed his head with seven plumes in the rainbow colours of the faith streaming upwards, almost touching the arched ceiling. Qyburn claimed Strong refused to speak until all her enemies were dead, so Cersei was sure he will never speak again.

They headed to the small council chambers, the massive knight filled the halls with the clanking of armour and the stomping of his heavy boots. He scared everyone, Cersei knew; servants, guards and lords alike. Around her were workers and red cloaks busy doing as she requested. With hammers and pickaxes they picked away at the walls of the Red Keep.

Two green cloaks stood outside the door to the small council, in mail with the golden rose of Highgarden sewn onto their tabards. They just took one look at the kingsguard behind her and that persuaded them to stand aside, letting her walk through like the queen she was.

They didn’t rise for her, the roses who sat around the small council table. Lord Mace Tyrell looked up, flabbergasted. “My queen . . . you’re not welcome.” He was dressed in rich green doublet decorated with the golden roses of his house and around his neck was interlocking gold hands. She just wanted to squeeze those hands around his fat pink neck.

“I am the queen regent, you have no right to say what I can and can’t do,” she said, walking around the table, all their eyes following. “I am the king’s mother, I have his ear and his trust. Tommen is my son.” _I’ve been imprisoned against my will, been starved and punished like a peasant_. The perfect small council she had created was now destroyed. She was surrounded by roses, all with thorns at the ready to take what belonged to her.

“You have no right to be regent,” Lord Randyll Tarly said, his voice stern and flat. He reminded Cersei too much of Stannis and she knew he'll be her greatest threat, especially with the little filly in his care.

“I am. I’m Tommen’s blood, I birthed him.” She took her seat at the front of the table and they shifted awkwardly in their seats. It seemed Lord Mace was too anxious of the guard standing behind her. If she gave the order, Ser Strong could crush his head within a heartbeat. He knew that too. “So I will sit as regent until Tommen comes of age.” Cersei Lannister pulled out a rolled up scroll with the king’s stamp pressed into the wax. “Tommen has proclaimed me so. Here’s the proof.” She handed it to Tarly, who almost snatched it from her. Her bright green eyes scanned the faces around the table. “I doubt you would want to ignore the king’s orders and throw me out.” It had not been hard. Her son liked stamping wax. It was his favourite part of being king.

Lord Randyll Tarly inspected the wax before breaking it open and his eyes skimmed the parchment. “Signed by the King’s own hand and stamped with his seal.” He said nothing else and handed it to his liege lord.

After reading through it, Lord Mace Tyrell’s face went pale. “If it’s the king’s own . . . we can’t refuse such a request,” he almost splattered, before staring down at the table. “I will be the first to speak of your uncle. It’s a tragedy that Ser Kevan Lannister has died . . . a horrible tragedy and I’m sure we’ll find the ones who did this.” Cersei’s nostrils flared. “I can think of no one better to take his place then his own kin.”

_Liar_. She turned to her Master of Whispers, one who she was sure had his uses and will be more loyal then Varys ever was, but that wasn’t saying much. “What news of the realm did I miss while I was imprisoned by the faith?” _The realm fell apart in my absence, I’m sure_.  

“A few things, my queen. The Golden Company are attacking the Stormlands,” Qyburn reported. “They’re attacking the coast, attacking holdfasts and villages. Without the Royal or Redwyne fleet, they have unchallenged access to Westeros.”

“Likely involved with Waters,” the fat rose of Highgarden bristled. “This is what you get for placing a bastard as Master of Ships. Bastards are a treacherous lot.”

“Golden Company? How?” She heard they were fighting with Myr or was it Lys . . . Tyrosh. Either one of those daughters of Valyria. They were all too alike. _But what does it matter, they’ve always lost their petty invasions_. 

Lord Tarly turned to her, his eyes cold. “They’re sellswords, Connington is likely paying them, or turned in a favour from his service. He did fight for them before his false story of drinking himself to death. Not only that, it is now common knowledge that he has two Targaryens with him. One or both are likely feigned.”

“Two dragons?” _No . . . it can’t be_. Viserys had died to disease in the savage lands of Essos. The queen had never seen Robert so happy when he received the news. He drank and feasted so much Cersei thought his belly would rapture. Varys claimed the younger sister had taken her leave and married a lowly sellsword’s son.

“We should send them a wedding gift,” Petyr Baelish had quipped. “A pleasant one, worthy of a princess.”

“A sharp knife, and a good man to wield it,” was Roberts’s response. “Likewise for that lowborn husband of hers. If he gets her with child, it'll turn them into the new Blackfyres, a threat to my reign and my children, and their children. Fifty thousand gold stags for her head.”

But it was Lord Jon Arryn – the old lord whose breath smelled like stale cheese – who persuaded him not to, saying she was only a little girl and of no threat. _Honourable lord and a fool. Too much like Lord Stark_. “What dragons?”

The small council looked at each other uncertainly. It was Qyburn who spoke up. “Prince Aegon Targaryen, or an imposter. Alongside him stands Princess Daenerys, the daughter of the Mad King.”

“She’s likely as mad as her father," Mace declared. “The boy is a pretender.”

“Aegon? Rhaegar’s son?” _He should have been mine. Rhaegar should have been mine_. She could still remember him. Prince Rhaegar stood proud and tall; his face impossibly beautiful, with long silver hair and eyes that could piece you. _He wasn’t a man, he was like a god, a son of Valyria_. Even Jaime looked like a mere stable boy beside him. Seventeen and recently knighted, the prince of Dragonstone wore black plate over golden chainmail, with streams of red and black that looked like fire. He played his silver harp and made the pavilion weep. Cersei’s father promised her hand to the crown prince. Rhaegar was to be her husband and she was to be his queen, birthing him silver lions who’ll be the most beautiful creatures in the world. But that dream ended at the Trident. She never forgot what King Robert did or forgive him. “He’s dead. _Killed_. His head painted the wall.”

“He seems to be legitimate, from what we can see. Before his tragic death, Ser Kevan Lannister had been conversing with us on how to deal with the Targaryen invasion to the east. His death was a great setback. Half their army has already landed on our shores. Half of their number is the Golden Company, and the other half is in the Disputed Lands. Unsullied slave soldiers and the Lost Legion. Their strength is further augmented by the Free Cities who support their cause.”

_Bloody traders. They smell a little coin and swarm like rats_. “Lost Legion? Never heard of them.” _Another lowly sellsword company_.

“A sellsword company usually operating around Volantis. They claim to be the blood of Old Valyria itself and are proud of it. Led by a captain by the name of Valarr, a descendent of the Mad King as well. Considered by many to be among the best tacticians Essos has to offer.”

Mace Tyrell scoffed his dismissal. “Lowborn. Pirates. Pretenders who claim to be what they are not. We can easily push them back. They’re sellswords, can we persuade them to turn their swords to us?”

Qyburn shook his head. “Alas, my Lord Hand, our vaults contain only rats and roaches. Ser Harys Swyft has sailed for Braavos, hopefully he can treat with the Iron Bank and extend us a new loan. But we currently have nothing to pay off the sellswords with. Besides, I very much doubt the Legion will turn against those born from the dragonlords so easily. A core of their tenant is Valyrian supremacy. The last I checked, Targaryens are of Valyrian blood. They’ve got dragons . . . three of them. The legion will likely stand firm.”

“Dragons? Real ones?” Her Master of Whispers nodded. _How is that possible?_ “So you’re saying Aegon the conqueror has come back to life,” she snapped. _I have fools surrounding me. Incompetent fools_. Her spymaster presented her an open scroll. Cersei snatched it. _If I wasn’t imprisoned, this wouldn’t have happened_. She smoothed it and began reading.

 

_To the usurpers who soil the Iron Throne._

_I write on behalf of the true king and queen of Westeros. Prince Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife Princess Elia Martell of Dorne. Rightful ruler of Westeros. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Alongside him stands Princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, royal consort and mother of dragons, trueborn daughter of Queen Rhaella Targaryen and King Aerys the second of his name._

_I am writing to inform all that the tale of Aegon’s demise was false and in truth the babe was saved during the sack to hide in Essos, just as his aunt and uncle were, to ensure his safety from the blades of those who seeked to end his most noble line. In the east he has hid to learn the skills needed to rule as both his right and duty. Let it be known that those who resist will be punished without mercy and be declared enemies of the realm._

_We are coming for you for the crimes you have committed against your king and royal family. Unless you submit, the dragons will take their revenge and end your lines, turning you and all your achievements to ash._

_By the hand of Tyrion of House Lannister_

_A Lannister always pays his debts_

 

“Similar messages have been sent to all the noble lords of Westeros,” Lord Randyll warned. “They demand swords to join their cause and many are. The Targaryens are only gaining in strength. Best move quickly and crush them in the field before the other half of their army arrives.” 

“We need every sword to press against these invaders,” Mace Tyrell declared. Cersei turned to the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Both he and Tarly had armies outside the gates of King’s Landing. The queen regent had made sure the city was secure in case they tried to storm through. They numbered around forty to fifty thousand or near enough.

“Remove them before the rest of their army can cross,” advised Lord Randyll Tarly. “If the other half of their army crosses the narrow sea, we’ll face a much greater army. Crush the Golden Company and fortify the coast, it’ll make it harder for the rest of their army to invade. The autumn storms of the narrow sea will most likely delay them.”

“But the dragons?”

“Dragons can be shot down. These ones are small. They’re barely hatchlings. When Aegon the Conqueror invaded, Dorne shot one down with a scorpion. It was a much larger dragon.”

“The Dornish,” Mace interjected, his red face tightening. “Those dogs are sure to join with those dragonspawn if they believe they’re legitimate. They’ll add their own forces to the Targaryens.”

“Then all the better to end them quickly.”

Whilst they were conversing about how to defeat the Targaryens, Cersei was thinking. _The dwarf . . . he is working with the Targaryens_. Cersei slowly stared at the Tyrell and his bannerman whose voices got louder. Mace was sounding desperate. _The roses are working with him also. I just know it._ They switched sides like sellswords, passing their daughter from one husband to another, too whoever wore a crown. Cersei Lannister was sure they’ll be willing to do something similar.

A thought came into her mind. Similar to what Jaime told her. She put her hands together. “My lords.” All turned to her. “I believe I have a plan to end our dragon dilemma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel about the Cersei chapter? I’m curious to what you think. She'll be interesting as she gets evermore paranoid. I do plan on more chapters within King's Landing, as the situation breaks down between the various factions within the walls and keep.


	21. The Watcher on the Wall

It was a cold and bitter experience, standing atop the wall which stretched from one end of the world to the other. Lann stood on the ice separating the civilised lands of the south to the north where the savage wildlings resided in the darkness, in their caves and hiding behind snow covered trees. Always watching for the first sign of weakness.

The wall was the only thing protecting the civilised lands and Jon fucking Snow had let them all in.

He hated it up north, away from his home and family in Oxcross. The last time he saw them was when he was tried by his lord’s men. The Westerman had been given a choice between the rope or to take the black and freeze his balls off. He picked wrong.

Even underneath his black leathers and stinking furs, he was freezing. Especially his face – the one thing exposed to the elements. Every breath was painful, the cold froze his tongue and made his chest hurt with every puff.

The former poacher turned watchman stared down at Castle Black, the darkness being held at bay by the light of a dozen braziers and standing beside them were the black figures who were his current brothers. The brothers he never wanted and didn’t like. Lann preferred his blood. Little Harry and Rennick who were little when he poached that blasted deer. From what he heard of the battle, Lann knew in his heart that his brothers were killed by the Young Wolf at Oxcross.

Lann hated the Starks, the house that rose up against the rightful king and killed his family. _Traitors. The wolves are traitors. Worshipping trees like those wildlings. They should all be on the other side_. Snow even had that wolf following him around. The red eyed demon was silent as a ghost and always looks to kill anyone who disagreed with its master. One who breaks the traditions of the Nights Watch, breaking his vows and allowing the hordes in to pillage, kill and rape. _He even allowed those demon worshippers to eat our bread and sleep in our bunks_.

The gods have already cursed the Baratheon and his family, he was sure of it. The girl was infected with greyscale, a curse which was sure to spread. “Wash yourself in vinegar and eat cloves of garlic,” Jeren once advised in the common hall. “Either that or coat yourself in something to counter the evil smells.” _Or better yet, just kill the girl and be done with it_.

The watcher turned to look down at Castle Black. The streets between the various structures were empty, with most preferring to use the underground tunnels. Icicles hung like silver spears from the overhanging roofs of buildings – each filled with a mixture of Black Brothers, Queens’s men and Wildlings. The torches and braziers were alight but provided little warmth in the worsening winter. _Soon enough we’ll be eating leather, all because Snow decided to throw away traditions made to keep the realm safe_. Him and his fellow stewards knew it. The more people there were, the more food was consumed. Supplies were limited even before the Wildlings came through but now the granaries were going to be empty before the winter was up.

Not that he minded wildlings heading south, as long as they remained above the Neck. The northerners deserved it all. They were goddess heathens who made blood sacrifices and refused to worship the true seven. The three different groups had been having a fair share of fights even before the Lord Commander made enough enemies to be stabbed. _Good riddance. Now the Old Pomegranate himself is Lord Commander, with Ser Thorne supporting him_. He liked neither, but they promised to remove the consequences of Lord Snow’s failures. Many stewards and builders supported the new regime and plans were being set in place to barricade the entrances and clean up the Wildling and the supporters of the Red God. The Night’s Watch was meant to be neutral to conflicts south after all, aiding Stannis was going to turn the Iron Thrones eyes to the wall and not for the best.

He rubbed his gloved hands together and spread them above the brazier. Lowering himself to the flames and letting the warmth touch his face where it felt like a lovers kiss. _What I wouldn’t give for a women_.  

“Lann, you bloody bastard,” came a familiar voice. The watcher turned around to see Gendry, a large man covered head to toe in thick padding and fur. “The Lord Commander requests everyone comes to the common hall. Every man of the watch needs to be present.”

“Aye, what reasons, may I ask? Why would I wish to leave my spot overlooking everything in the blasted cold and instead go somewhere warm and dry?”

The man shrugged. With long limbs, he strode to the fire. His breathing heavy and white. Frost covered his greying beard and his eyes were weepy. “Because you won’t freeze your bloody cock off. Not like we need it, bloody oaths.” He forced a smile. Gendry always tried to make the best of it. 

He couldn’t stand standing up in the wall so he took the excuse and followed Gendry into the common hall where most of the remaining brothers were. All in thick coats to ward off the cold and black mail underneath. Few people went around Castle Black unarmed and unarmoured now. Melting snow and mud covered the rush covered floor and a fire burning with a thick boiling stew hanging above it. A former mole threw more and more logs into it, making the fire grow larger and roar.

Atop the dais sat the commanders of the Night’s Watch. Ser Allister Thorne, an aged knight who was as slender as a birch, with black eyes and hair lined with grey. Lann never had the misfortune to have him as master-at-arms but heard that he was a harsh taskmaster. From what Lann knew, Ser Thorne was a Targaryen loyalist. Fighting at the siege of King’s Landing when the Lannister’s attacked under the peace banner. During that time, Lann had been a child who had been busy running across the brook and playing with the other children of the village when he wasn’t helping his mother in the tavern, serving food and drinks to his lord’s men-at-arms on patrols or serving knights. The old knight had come back from his ranging with the few others who made it. Ambushed by wildlings most likely.

Sitting beside Thorne was the new Lord Commander, the Old Pomegranate himself whose face was round and red, shrivelled like a raisin. There were other commanders as well, ones Lann didn’t know or care about.

He took a seat as close as he could to a roaring hearth. The hall had been split ever since the mutiny. Lord Snow’s supporters on one end, mostly made up of rangers; detractors on the other, mostly made up of builders and stewards. The bastard’s body had been placed in the ice cells, guarded by that whore of his and his personal wildlings. That red eyed demon was still locked up, too fierce for any of the brothers to open the door and kill it. So they just decided to let it starve. Its howls kept up Castle Black through many nights.    

“Fucking cooks,” Ronnet complained as he pressed his wooden spoon into the porridge. He was a Stormlander, with a mane of orange hair and the shoulders of a horse. His face was like a horse too. “You’ll think with how ancient they are, they’ll least know how to cook a decent meal.”

“Still better than me moms,” replied Mikken the builder who had thin grey hair and enough wrinkles on his face to look like a screwed up parchment. “Seven bless ‘er, she was a terrible cook.” He chuckled. “I put this at second.”

“If this is second, how are you still alive,” Ronnet continued, screwing his face up and letting the grease slide off and fall into the bowl with a plop. “I can swear that a bowl o’ brown in King’s Landing is better than this.”

“Depends what they have in it,” replied Robin who tore off a chunk of black bread stuffed with sawdust. “They say that people go missing only to be found in the tubs. They say its fish or pork, but people occasionally pick out fingers or toes.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said the bastard of the Reach named Axell, a comely seed of a knight. Gifted with his father’s looks as well as his father’s debt when his sire fell from his horse during a tourney. “People say that many went missing when the dwarf became hand. He served bards who didn’t sing well enough and whores who failed to satisfy his lust. He gets his own wildlings brutes to hunt people down through the streets of Flea Bottom and turns men into eunuchs.”

Lann shook his head. “Nothing like cannibalism to ruin this perfectly fine meal.” He pushed the bowl away and stared longingly at the lords and the food they were served. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.” _At least for this_.

“Wouldn’t advise that,” Madden said through a stuffed mouth, spitting food everywhere. “The Lord Commander has plans for us. I overheard him speaking while on guard duty. He says we’re to deal with them wildlings soon.”

“What,” Lann’s interest sparked. “How’s that going to happen?”

His companion rise a hand out to calm him. “It’s secret, only the commanders can know, but the old man wants to remove Stannis and his fire worshippers as well. There is no way the Lannister’s are going to keep the peace here if it continues.”

“Baratheon’s,” Lann corrected, if unsurely. “They’re Baratheon’s. Robert was one and if me memory works, surely his seed are too.” He heard the rumours of them being bastards born of incest, but he doubted it. They were rumours created by the ambitious uncle who took his army to Castle Black and the Young Wolf.

The others exchanged uneasy glances. “Does it matter which one of these fuckers wears a crown,” Ronnet muttered, lazily stirring his food still. “Stag, lion, wolf. All the bloody same. Highborn and stubborn and don’t give a shit ‘bout us. We’re ants to them, them and their wars.”

“Aye,” Robin agreed, smiling. “Synt was the worst of the lot. The only good thing Snow did was kill the bugger. That was funny, the way he squealed like a pig.”

“Pig? He looked more like a frog,” Ronnet laughed.

“You could say he croaked.”

They all shared a laugh before they heard a thump and turned to the new commander. The old man stood up. “Brothers,” he said, his voice low and sounded like it was about to go any second. “I have called you all here now because we’re serving the Watch at the worst moment in its long history. For eight thousand years we as a brotherhood have guarded against the Wildlings. We have been following our duty all whilst the Seven Kingdoms are divided by war and too busy to aid with the likes of us. Wildlings sweep through the walls under the foolishness of our former commander. Now the fruits of his labours have sprouted. They are busy looting and raping the lands to the south, regardless of the vows they said. Lord Snow promised them the Gift, but they are drifting further down, towards the lands of the lords who in their past had supported us. Isn’t that we vowed to stop? We vowed to protect the realms of men—”

“Aye, to protect the realms of _men_ ,” shouted one brother, a false one from the other side of the wall. The men around him – rangers – clapped and roared their approval.

“We never elected you,” shouted another ranger who stood up on the table. He was all in black, but like the other, he was a wildling through and through. “I heard that the Night’s Watch elected their leaders. But who elected you, old man?”

A few laughed, others cursed and others clapped in agreement. Marsh reddened further at those words. “What I do, I do for the realm. To protect her against the hordes who pillage her lands and children—”

“What about the white horde!” Leathers shouted, standing up once again. “Would you let women and children starve and be prey for the others?” There were a few mutters, mostly among those who doubted the creature’s existence, or didn’t believe them much a threat. Lann was the former.

Marsh didn’t answer the wildling and continued with his speech. Not liking that, one of the rangers grabbed a piece of black bread and chucked it at the old man. Old Pomegranate reddened further. “What I do, I do for the realm. To protect her from those who seek to pillage her land and children. We’ve been keeping the Wildlings at bay for eight thousand years, eight thousand years of tradition being thrown away by some green blooded boy. I’m protecting Westeros!”

That caused an uproar among supporters of the previous commander. One of his detractors stood up, spat at the ground and left. One soon turned to two and then more. It turned into a steady stream as they left the hall, leaving the larger part of the remaining watch.

“Seven hells, that was . . . interesting,” Gendry muttered, looking concerned.

“What do you expect,” Flowers muttered, his eyes watching the commander’s converse. “Many seem to be on the verge of rebellion. Sooner or later, the watch is going to collapse. One way or another. When it does, I’m heading back home to the Reach, at least it’ll be warmer then here.”

_Everywhere is warmer then here_. “But we’ll be seen as oath breakers, you get killed for that,” Lann responded, his voice hushed. _But they’ll likely have bigger problems when a few missing crows_. Lann was sure he could loot the kitchens before heading south and pray to the gods he doesn’t freeze to death.

After smashing his fists on the table, Thorne stood up, taking Marsh’s place. “Men of the watch.” People stopped their muttering and turned to him. None liked Allister, but he commanded their attention regardless. “We as an order can only survive if we clear out the Wildlings from the south. I never liked Lord Snow, I will admit. But I followed his orders, as moronic as they were and did it to the best of my abilities. Now the seeds he has planted are beginning to sprout. He may have kept them in line, but no longer. The wildlings migrate, looting and pillaging. The castles they once manned under a deal are now abandoned once again.”

Another commanders stood up. “Aye. It is our duty to defend the realm. To do so, we need to continue our oath.” He pulled out a sword, glowing besides the raging hearth behind him. “Who stands with me. We’re the watchers on the walls, to shield the realms of men. We all pledged our lives for the watch. Oaths that no man can break. _Who stands with me!_ ”

The rest of the black brothers glanced at each other before one shouted, “ _FOR THE WATCH!_ ” Then others took up the chant and soon the whole hall was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to give an introduction at whats happening at the wall.  
> I wanted to do it from the perspective of a common crow and also highlight how people view Jon Snow and what he had done, especially when many still doubt the Others existence or are just too set in their ways.  
> Besides, this is a bit of foreshadowing on how the people below the Neck think of the north, especially as the faith of the seven is getting increasingly zealous. The North is going to have a hard time with religious fanaticism from the seven, the winter and the war.  
> I plan on Jon Snow resurrecting in the next chapter at the wall. 
> 
> Next chapter will the taking of Storm’s End and a major battle.


	22. Jon Connington VI

It turned out better than expected _,_ Jon thought. 

After the battle outside the gates of Storm’s End and lifting the siege, Jon approached the castle leading a small retinue of veteran sellswords where he greeted Ser Gilbert Farring who stood before a crescent of men-at-arms with their weapons drawn; all in surcoats of gold and black, some with flaming harts sewn onto the fabric. The castellan thanked them for what they did, but seemed suspicious even though he seemed unaware of the Targaryen invasion, something Jon was thankful for.

Griff explained that they were brought from Essos by King Stannis and been ordered to retake the Stormlands from the Lannister’s while he’s fighting in the north. The castellan seemed too relieved to deny it. Before they were allowed entrance, Farring made sure they took the customary salt and bread. After that formality was done, they were allowed inside the walls. The atmosphere was a lot friendlier with the stronghold believing they were friends, both sides exchanged easy jests and the defenders praised the Golden Company for breaking the siege.

Jon was content to let them believe they were on the same side. In the meantime he gained information of the keep and the men deployed with the Baratheon usurper. A small part of the Golden Company manned the walls whilst the majority remained outside, under Aegon and Harry’s command. Griff waited for food were delivered by boat into Storm’s End, where the garrison and men of the company feasted and drank their fill. That was when he struck. Following his instructions, the sellswords at the walls and around the armoury made their move: killing the guards and taking control before the defenders knew what was happening.

Swords rang throughout the yard and the feasting hall, but only for a short time. Most of the inhabitants were too drunk on fortified wine and didn’t put up much of a struggle. Soon enough, many guards dropped their weapons and surrendered. But they were men of the House Baratheon, ones Jon knew were loyal to the house that killed his silver prince. He handed them the fate they deserved.

Griff knew it was a despicable thing he had done, but they needed to take the keep. _A crime that will impress the lad’s pet sellsword no doubt,_ he thought bitterly before sending the message.

Aegon rode forward atop his black courser. He had dressed out of his sellsword garb and into his princely armour, the dye still lingered in his hair. “Storm’s End is ours,” Aegon point out, a smile forming only temporary. “Are there any prisoners?”

Jon Connington shook his head. “There is not. They were too loyal to the usurper to surrender. They all fought to the last. We lost two-and-seven men.” He couldn’t allow any to live, they would just spread tales of what he had done and damage the Targaryens reputation in the eyes of Westeros.

The prince nodded solemnly before showing a slight smirk. “Storm’s End is now ours. The usurpers own home is ours, and losing less than thirty men as well.” He let out a light laugh and his smile was blinding. “The Seven are truly on our side.”

For that Jon doubted. While he was never a pious man, he knew that breaking guest rights was dangerous, both because people will hate them and that the gods will curse them. The old gods and the new. _What I do, I do for my silver prince’s son. Let the god’s judge me and me alone. I did what was_ _necessary_.

The victors feasted in the great hall that night on roasted meats, freshly caught fish baked over a fire, with a siding of freshly prepared bread straight from the oven. All of which they washed it down with wine from the Arbor, Lys, Volantis and cider from Tyrosh. Jon Connington sat on the lord’s high table atop the dais, sharing the table with Homeless Harry Strickland, Black Balaq, Flowers, Gorys Edoryen, Lysono Maar, Tristan Rivers and Laswell Peake. The griffin was seated on the right hand side of the empty lord’s seat. It was meant to be occupied by the prince who instead was feasting and drinking with the men, telling jests and stories. _He can’t do that when he’s king_ , Jon thought, his crimes weighing heavily on his mind.

“So what’s our next cause of action,” Harry asked as he broke a loaf of dark bread in half. He always ate heavily, did homeless Harry.

Jon pondered about it. Many knights and minor lords were flocking under the dragon banner after they captured many castles. The larger houses were cautious, but they seemed to be looking at Aegon as the rightful king or at least as a serious contender rather than following the Lannister spawn. “We wait. I’ll soon send a message to Princess Daenerys and inform her that the Stormlands are under our control. It’ll soon be safe to arrive with the rest of our army.” _Hopefully the two dragons of hers are larger now and our fleet is less reckless_.

After they took the keep, Balerion was regularly seen flying above Storm’s End, eagerly snatching livestock from the surrounding farms. Only a single farmer was brave enough to approach. That was where Aegon showed himself to be Rhaegar’s son: he apologised to the man and offering compensation. Shortly after, more farmers came, many of whom Jon doubted were legitimate. Not that it mattered to Aegon. The prince was too busy acting the good king and briskly dismissed his concerns.

Harry Strickland bobbed his head. “Aye, I agree. Let the rest of our army arrive. Many are still scattered around the Stormlands. Currently we lack the strength to defeat the combined powers of the Lannister’s and the Reach. We had Storm’s End fall to us, so we should secure it and wait for the Unsullied and Legion.”

Connington wondered if the autumn storms would affect the second landing like it did theirs. He hoped not. They arrived at Storm’s End with seven thousand men, with around three hundred dying outside the walls against the Tyrells and taking the castle. _Much less than expected, but only through cunning_. “I’m sure Mace Tyrell will soon realise what has happened and not want a bunch of sellswords taking what he’s spent time and men trying to achieve.” Jon Connington speculated on who would be sent to deal with them. From what he heard, Mace Tyrell had marched with the majority of his army to join the forces of Lord Randyll Tarly. He hoped it was the Lord Paramount himself. But even then Jon doubted they could beat him, Lord Tyrell had some of the best knights of the Seven Kingdoms forming his army, and many of them. _Hot-blooded with the finest armour and weapons money can buy_. That was if Tyrell and Mace split up. Their combined army marching down the kingsroad would spell their doom.

Griff glanced at Aegon who was busy with carousing with the men. After they captured the castle which had defied the gods, Aegon was walking around with a spring in his step. It was getting increasingly difficult for his ward to be cautious. _He is young and hot-blooded from the Martell side. It’s only becoming more evident_. The prince wanted to capitalise on the victory and begin the march up to King’s Landing, taking the north of the Stormlands in the process. _If the Tyrells match down, he will want to meet them in the field. Not behind walls_. His father would have been more cautious. _At least that dragon of his is getting well trained_. For that, Jon was thankful.

When he had half ate his meal, Jon asked to be excused and immediately left for the maester’s tower where an ex-maester commonly known as Chains was in the process of writing messages to the various lords of Westeros, demanding they swear swords to the Targaryen cause. “Any news of King’s Landing,” asked Connington.

The former-maester was a big bellied man, with a shiny bald head and a thin grey beard. He still had his maester’s chains which wrapped tightly around his thick pink neck. Chains showed a knowing grin. “A few. Ser Kevan Lannister is dead, as is Grand Maester Pycelle. The former killed with a crossbow bolt, the queen regent thinks it’s the dwarfs work.” Jon scoffed and asked for any more. “The rest isn’t that good, I’m afraid. Margaery Tyrell is now under the protection of Lord Tarly, with him swearing a holy oath to his High Holiness to return her and her cousins for trial.”

“So what does that mean?” The last thing Jon wanted was for Randyll Tarly to come down with the Tyrell army. That man handed Robert Baratheon his only defeat during his rebellion, smashing the stags host with his vanguard during the Battle of Ashford.

“With his daughter away from the faith, the lord of the Reach has decided it is time to push us back into the sea. Tarly waits in the city, with a sizable force while Mace matches down the kingsroad with twenty thousand men.”

Jon just stared at him, his mind going blank. He just nodded slightly after a long moment of silence. “Anything else?”

“Aye, one more important thing. I’ve received a message from Haldon. The Dornish Princess Arianne Martell has approached Griffins Roast and is taking a ship towards us.”

_Some good news at least_. Aegon was her cousin and Doran’s nephew. She will likely want to inspect him and what they done before they send in their spears. _Which he should have done already. Only a selfish fool won’t help their blood_. “What houses have offered us their allegiance?” He doubted it would be much, many of the houses in the Stormlands could be as fickle as sellswords. He got a list, mostly small houses, but a few larger ones were willing to fight as long as they benefitted. “Land and titles, give them that, and coin.” The former-maester bowed his head before getting to work.

The prince was still were he left him. “Prince Aegon,” Jon said formally. “There is something we need to discuss.”

His ward immediately noticed the tone and nodded, both walking to the corner of the hall. “What is it my lord? Is Dany coming?” He sounded so hopeful.

Jon shook his head. “Princess Daenerys isn’t. But others are, quite a few.” That spiked the lad’s interest and he asked who. “Lord Mace Tyrell is bringing an army to meet us.”

“I’m guessing they’re not coming to give me their swords,” Aegon said grimly. “Traitors. They served my father and grandfather during the rebellion and now seek to remove us. If it wasn’t for House Targaryen, they’ll still be stewards. Fine then, let’s show them what happens when they betray the dragon.”

“Then we should collect the harvest and fortify the castle. Wait for Daenerys and bring in the rest of our army. Twenty thousand should be enough be take the Tyrells.” _If our other half lands further down the coast, we can hit from two directions, cutting off their retreat_.

Aegon’s purple eyes flickered. He shook his head. “No, I want to ride out and meet them. Show them what happens when roses decide to fight against dragons.”

“Roses have thorns. It would be unwise to fight knights in the field, my prince.”

“Roses may have thorns, but they will burn, like their political ambitions. We ride out and meet them in the field.” When Jon tried to change the prince’s mind, Aegon refused. “Like I said, I won’t hide. We swept apart the Stormlands like . . . well, a storm. Storm’s End has fallen to us, as have many other castles. We should take advantage of our luck and strike now at Mace Tyrell. We crush his army in the field and everyone will see me as the rightful ruler and that will undermine the boy king’s authority. Hiding in a castle isn’t going to do that.”

As much as Jon didn’t want to admit it, there was sense in Aegons words. Westerosi were a martial people. If they saw the Golden Company and Aegon take victory against the Tyrells in open battle, they would see him as him as the proper king. Many lords will flock under the three headed dragon, leaving the Lannister’s and their allies all the weaker. “As you wish my prince.” Aegons eyes brightened. “But let me command our men.”

Aegon smiled, a beautiful smile. He put his hand on his foster-fathers shoulder. “I trust you more than anyone. You’re my hand. I can find no one worthier.” Jon acknowledged it with a nod. “Is there anything else?”

“There is indeed. Your cousin: Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne. She’s coming to Storm’s End to meet you.”

Aegon grinned. “Likely to lend me her father’s spears. Do you know when she’ll arrive?”

“The roads are treacherous, the waters even more so. I don’t know when she’ll arrive.” He could recall Princess Arianne Martell, the oldest child and heir to Dorne from the time she visited her aunt. From what Jon could remember, she was a pudgy and short girl, not the type to attract a boy’s attention.

The Targaryen prince nodded. “Then let’s hope she gets here after our victory. Prepare the men. We should find preferable terrain and meet Lord Rose in the field, his home. The Tyrells will see what happens when they dare betray the dragon.”

Jon sat atop his warhorse, looking down on the muddy fields which formed the battlefield. On either side was thick foliage made of bushes and trees. This was the closest thing to the perfect terrain they could get. It was situated on the king’s road, with the Tyrells needing to pass through to get to Storm’s End. The Golden Company just had to wait.

Heavy infantry formed the centre, equipped with shield and pike: styled after the lockstep legions of Old Ghis. Positioned on the flanks were the archers under the leadership of Black Balaq. Jon knew the archers will play an important part in the battle. A third of them were armed with crossbows, another third with the double-curved horn-and-sinew bows of the east. Fifty elite Summer Islanders including Black Balaq used the great goldenheart bows which could outrange all but Dragonbone. The rest of their archers used Westerosi longbows, further augmented by the locals who joined their banner. Jon made sure the archers were protected with sharpened stakes to ward off cavalry, with a few crossbowmen settled in the heavy bushes to fire at the Tyrell knights from the sides. Also on the sides and in front of the archers were the remaining cavalry, with ten elephants on each flank, all the ones that managed to make it from their voyage from Essos.

“If only it isn’t wet,” Aegon complained in jest, in his black plate and surrounded by the elite of the company and his kingsguard. “Curse the Stormlands for being stormy.” He was in high spirits, even if the rest of the men weren’t.

_The rain was a blessing_ , Jon knew, disagreeing with his ward. The ground between both armies was a mud bath, among the worst terrain for an army to fight through. _All we have to do is wait_.

The Tyrells on the other hand needed to press quickly. While Aegon wasn’t for the plan of sitting back and fighting defensively, the combined urging of both Jon and Ser Barristan, as well as the leadership of the company was enough to change his decision.

The Tyrell army stood before them. Many mounted atop beautiful coursers and their more heavy destriers. Flapping in the wind above them were banners in a hundred different colours. The golden rose of Highgarden were everywhere, sewn into the breast of soldiers and on the tabards of knights and men-at-arms. But other symbols were painted on the shields and sewn on flapping silk standards: trees, flowers, bounties of food; a white sun on a field of orange, a silver wyvern. Green and red Fossoway, Oakheart, House Appleton, House Graceford, and many more. 

_There are so many. Twenty thousand against seven thousand. The odds aren’t in our favour._ All Jon could hope was that Lord Tyrell was reckless and decide to strike head on against pikemen who were supported by sharpened stakes in front of their position. He turned to a serjeant. “Tell Black Balaq to order his men to aim for the mounts themselves.” The man nodded and hurried off. Jon was well versed in Westerosi tactics from the civil war and his knowledge before that. The Reach itself was especially known for its heavy cavalry charge that could buckle a defensive line. _At least it will be slowed by the mud_. He could see that the horses weren’t as well protected as the riders and if the mounts were downed, the riders would be crushed by those behind. Jon was certain that the discipline of the Golden Company could withstand the shock tactic. _Discipline is a mother’s milk to them. They need to hold else the stranger will visit us._

As he was well accustomed to, both sides waited for the other to make the first move. Jon saw how restless the army of the Reach was. Many were hot-blooded youths who yearned for the glory and honour they’ll get on the battlefield. After three hours of waiting, Jon began losing patience and decided to goad them into action. All along the Targaryen line they taunted and shouted, “ _PLOUGH THE ROSES! CRUSH THE ROSES!_ ” They were the most common, as well as, “ _GODS FOR AEGON, WESTEROS, AND BITTERSTEEL!_ ” They shouted and cursed, smashing their weapons on their shields, many giving obscene gestures.  

The taunt seemed to have the desired effect. The knights were getting agitated and began shouting back. As Jon had hoped, the knights couldn’t stand to be insulted anymore and charged at full speed through the muddy ground. “ _NOCK_ ,” Connington roared and the archers on the flanks did so. The knights compacted in the narrow field, each knight struggling in their haste to reach the battle first. Jon felt his heart beat through his neck and his breathing deepened. The griffin stretched his shoulders, flexing and relaxing the hand clutching the handle of his sword and felt a swelling within his gut. Already the pre-battle adrenaline was already coursing through him, heightening his senses. _Just wait, that’s it . . ._ “ _LOOSE!_ ”

Missiles shot through the air, thousands of them. Arrows rising high and flickering from sight before plummeting down into the knights like heavy rain during a storm. As soon as the first volley was released, archers were fitting other arrows onto their bowstrings and cocking their crossbows.

The yelling and war cries soon turned to screams. The horses underneath the knights buckled and collapsed from the barrage of bolts and arrows. Knights in their shining armour and bright colours were toppled and crushed to death by those behind, or drowned in the mud: their heavy plate, mail and leather while impenetrable to arrows from the distance were too heavy and ungainly. The momentum of the cavalry charge slowed down as the mud deepened, and their compactness left them easy targets for the company’s archers who kept up the volleys. Many knights tried to break away, turning their bleeding and injured horses around. Those who did, turned their exposed backs to their enemy as they fled full speed back towards their dismounted men-at-arms. Others continued on their course, numbers lessening by every arrow as they neared the line of sharpened points. Their own lances angled downwards.

“ _READY, MEN OF THE COMPANY_ ,” Jon roared as he lifted his shield towards the fully plated knights. “ _FOR THE DRAGONS_.”

“ _FOR THE DRAGONS_ ,” they roared, bracing themselves with pikes and spears and polearms. A wall of metal at the ends of long poles, gleaming at the points. Around a half of the Reachmen’s horses shied away at the last moment, instantly breaking their momentum. Others charged headlong into the spears, sharp steel ripping through the chests and throwing the riders off. Billmen hooked their polearms around knights and dragged the riders off their horses. Those who fell in the mud barely had time to get up before sellswords threw themselves on top of them. The heavy metal which encased their bodies provided no protection as they were stabbed through the joints and eye slits. Before Jon were many knights desperately controlling their mounts who reared up in blind panic, bleeding from multiple lacerations, lashing out with iron-shod hooves at anything too close and all the while their riders fought to control them.

“For the one true king,” one knight roared, pushing himself through the mud and bodies of his compatriots. He carried an oak shield painted with the yellow centaur of House Caswell. He was encased in heavy mail caked in mud. Griff rose his shield with the two combatant griffins in white and red. The Reachman charged, bellowing through his great helm. Jon rose his shield and caught the sword that cut through the wood. Jon lunged forward, swinging but the man evaded backwards, almost tripping over a half-submerged corpse – or a dying man. That gave Jon the time he needed to rip the sword out his shield and charged forward.

The Caswell knight was too fast, he quickly regained his bearing and blocked Jon with his shield. Their swords smashed together with the scrapping of sharpened steel. Neither could overpower the other. All that Jon could do was wait for his opponent to get exhausted in his full plate. Knowing it was the case, the knight charged once again, holding his longsword high and bellowing his house’s words. Jon threw up his shield, blocking the blow before smashing the knight in the head with the crossguard. The Caswell fell into the mud, and begged for mercy. Griff accepted it.

Jon looked up to see the Golden Company cavalry being enveloped by the much larger force. Armoured elephants trumpeted as they charged through horses, swinging their tusks and terrifying the already panicking mounts whilst trampling anyone else underfoot. The towers atop them were manned by archers who shot down from their elevated position. At the flanks, archers were warding off knights. Many were supported by heavy infantry but many archers with nothing else mallets which they used for the stakes were using them as makeshift hammers. They swarmed atop single knights who begged for mercy.

_These a brave men we’re fighting. But they’ll die all the same_. The younger him would be disgusted by this battle, but the older and more hardened Connington knew it as war. He expected nothing less from sellswords. Each knew they’ll be executed after the battle, as were the smallfolk who fought with Aegon. Every man was fighting for their very life.

The ground was drenched with blood as Jon forced himself through and found another target, a knight with a golden rose on his surcoat. Likely a household knight. Noticing who Jon was, the knight charged, shouting, “ _Die griffin!_ ”

Jon stepped pack, parrying the sword to the side. But the knight was skilled as they exchanged blows. After a point, the Tyrell knight’s shield lost most its paint and was instead a dented mess of shards of wood. One more strike caused the knight to stagger back, calling for aid. Griff ran up, swinging his weapon in an arc before smashing it down on the man’s helm – producing a loud ringing sound of steel before the Tyrell fell lifelessly into the mud.

“ _Die traitor, die!_ ” Came a sound from beside him. Griff turned around to see a man running at him, poleaxe raised above his head.

Jon turned around to brace himself for the attack that never arrived. Within an eye blink, the knight was beset by Maric who lunged and drove his dagger through the older man’s armpit, piercing through the padded leather. The knight dropped his weapon and fell face first into the mud. He tried to stand up but the squire pushed him down and demanded he submit, all the while he was heavily breathing. Jon couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the boy in a suit of chainmail with an open helm atop of a fully plated knight before his attention was focused elsewhere.

In the centre of the line was Aegon in his black armour with its elaborate scrollwork and the dragon of House Targaryen decorated in rubies on his breastplate. That same armour made him the target of all the Reachmen who wanted to be called a dragonslayer. But they only added to the mound of dying bodies around him. More lunged forward, only to be dispatched by the Kingsguard in cloaks soiled with blood and dirt. Ser Barristan who moved like a dancer, faster than everyone else and slicing through groups like the legendary warrior he was reputed to be. Duck meanwhile fought with a war hammer which he used expertly as expected of a blacksmith. Aegon fought skilfully as well, something Jon was relieved to see; holding his sword by the blade and smashing into plated knights with the pommel and crossguard. He had always been fast and his hits regularly made contact.

The Golden Company’s discipline prevailed. After the initial charge of knights failed and being beaten in the pursuing melee by sellswords, the knights retreated back to their own line; trampling those trapped and drowning, all the while they were being shot at with arrows. The Golden Company let out a celebration, a cheer. Ransoms, Homeless Harry claimed, his eyes flashing with promises of wealth. Jon wondered how many they captured, hundreds was his guess. Many Tyrells were still alive but too far away to take prisoner and many were still left to be thrown against them at Mace’s command. He pitted them, dragging themselves through the mud, in armour which was too heavy, hot and difficult to breathe, all the while being showered with arrows and bolts and hearing the screams of their friends and family.

That was exactly what happened next.

The dismounted knights and men-at-arms were sent forward. The field was much more of a mess after the failed cavalry charge. They pushed themselves like an avalanche, unyielding but slow. None looked up, all down at the corpse littered field, too afraid to raise their heads less they get arrows piercing their visors. Many fell – either succumbing to missiles or just slipping – and were crushed by their compatriots. The volleys kept up until Jon ordered the archers to stop when they got close enough. _Forgive them for their sins, seven. May they have peace in the seven heavens_. They must have thought the archers run out. They didn’t. Connington made sure each archer had plenty before the battle. He had stopped to use his main weapon

With the blow of a trumpet, the elephants charged. What was left of the monstrous beasts, all standing ten to fifteen feet tall and covered with enough armour to be invincible. They charged forward in a line, with heavy infantry running behind to exploit holes in the Tyrell formation. At the flanks were the knights and squires, or what was left of them; they’ll surround and serve as the hammer to the anvil.

It sparked the reaction Jon wanted.

The Tyrells and their bannermen looked up only to see monsters charging towards them. Many stopped, many fled. But not fast enough. Elephants smashed into them, throwing the armoured men around like dolls. Soldiers were so compact together they couldn’t properly lift their weapons, leaving them sitting ducks. The air was full of screams and shouts for the seven and begging for forgiveness and mercy. It was brutal, less of a battle and more of a slaughter, especially when the Tyrells flanks squeezed inwards. When the foot soldiers turned to rout, the Golden Company turned and withdrew back to their line, waiting for what comes next. 

The first two waves were gone, but Jon knew there was to be more. The Tyrells would reform and try again. _Possibly try and outflank us_. That made a cold shiver go down his spine. After a count, they collection at least several thousand prisoners; knights and lords, cousins, nephews and sons. He wagered they almost outnumbered the company.

In the distance the Tyrell host were reforming their lines. _If they go and surround us, we’re finished_. _They can free the prisoners and sweep upon our rea_ r. Only a light rear-guard had been formed because of their need of a strong frontline. But even now their own force was exhausted. Many archers had ran out of ammo and many sellswords were injured from the chaotic melee. Even a small force could bring their demise. _The prince needs to get the throne. What will Tywin do . . ._ With long strides, Connington went to the rear and ordered the execution of the all but the most valuable of prisoners.

“Milord, are you sure,” asked a sellsword serjeant, bleeding from a gash to his face – skin dangling from his cheek. He was weakly leaning on his spear, panting heavily. “They’re valuable, highborn, to kill them would be a waste.”

Jon shook his head. The Tyrells were shouting, sounding like another attack would be imminent. “Do as I said. They must not rise up. I’ll hang anyone who objects.” _They outnumber us. They will kill us if given half the chance_. The sellsword did as he requested, taking with him two hundred men of the company. Connington turned back and stood back besides Aegon who was muddied. During the battle, Jon had asked for his prince to go and be treated after he got hit in the side with an axe. The lad refused, claiming it will destroy the spirits of his men. _Like his father_ , Jon thought back.

“This other wave will it be crushed like the first,” the prince asked, his voice muffled by his helm and tired from the fighting. He wasn’t standing straight, Jon saw, likely drained in the heavy armour. Aegon lifted the visor up. “I just want it to be over.”

“It’ll be over soon. Their morale can’t be that high now.” _To be thrown back two times. Watching as their companions die in droves by arrows and sellswords. That would break the illusions of any highborn_. “They will come again and we’ll break them once more. It will continue until they surrender and we’re victorious.”

Jon could see anxiety on the prince’s features. He was panting deeply. “Let’s hope,” Aegon replied, his armour rattling as he moved his arms. “I certainly hope that—”

He was interrupted by an ear splitting screech from above. Jon stared up to see the beast heading towards them, its scales a mix of black and blood red. The dragon was too high to be hit by arrows as it circled above the battlefield. _Likely attracted to the smell of blood_ , Jon concluded. _The Reborn_ , people called it. _Balerion the Reborn._ It certainly looked like it. Not big enough to be ridden but could easily tear apart a group of men. Even from the distance it was, it terrified the remaining horses and elephants; the riders fighting a desperate battle to control them. The black dragon didn’t go down to feast on them, instead circling like a vulture.

A muffled laugh escaped the lad. “The dragon has come . . . _THE DRAGON HAS COME!_ ” He rose blackfyre above his head and repeated the words. Others took up the chant until entire company was shouting it.

Griff stared up at the elegant, serpentine movements before turning back to the Tyrell force. He had prepared for the attack that never arrived. The Tyrells were fleeing the battle. When Jon Connington realised this, he ordered what remained of their cavalry to harass and sent men to the rear to cease the killing.

Homeless Harry was smiling from ear to ear. He was clad in armour and his wealth, covered with both blood and mud, yet that made him look no more a warrior. “I can’t believe it, we won . . . we won. Against the powers of Highgarden. Against the knights of summer.”

_One battle of many_ , Jon was about to say. _This surely will rock Westeros to its core and everyone will look to us as serious contenders, for both good and bad_. They were that already, he knew but it would confirm more support. _Even before Daenerys comes back with the Lost Legion, the Unsullied and the two dragons_. The houses will see the weakness of the golden roses soon enough. 

Aegon removed his sallet helm and the thick padded cap underneath. His silver-gold hair was drenched and his face was red and shining. But he was smiling a relieved smile. “My lord, it looks like I was wrong about this.” Jon bowed his head respectfully. The prince had wanted a more traditional battle: mounted knights charging each other in an empty field with himself leading at the vanguard. May have been better for a song but not for victory. “You won this battle . . . for me. I thank you.”

Flowers smirked and slapped the lad on the back. He had been among eighty who protected the prince, all the best of the company. “This battle will destroy the Tyrells. Many lords died and many are under guard. Mace Tyrell, the fat rose himself is dead, trampled to death during the charge. I’ve sent the lads to salvage the injured and dying. What shall we do with the latter?”

“If they’re close to dying, give them the mother’s mercy, if not, make sure they’re well enough to be ransomed. They’ll be useful hostages and can keep their families from attacking us.”

Remembering that, Jon asked to take his leave leave – which Aegon offered – and rushed back to the camp where the prisoners were. He looked at them, most were either bound or held in cages whilst a ditch was being dug and camp followers were throwing the dead inside – without their processions of course. They were mostly knights, but Jon saw a few that he knew were minor lords. He was sure there were others and their families. All desperate for glory and wanting to be first in the fighting. _Enemies, we’ve gained many enemies this day_. He turned to the ones staring at him with daggers in their eyes like they knew he was the one who ordered it.

“Jon,” came a voice as sharp as a whip. Griff turned around to see Aegon flanked by both his kingsguard. Both of them looked shock, Ser Barristan especially and he mumbled a prayer to the mother. “What happened what—how many did you kill?”

“A few hundred, your grace,” spoke a man with a thick black beard and watery grey eyes. “All knights. We were under orders.”

“Under orders?” Aegon couldn’t believe it. Jon Connington nodded solemnly and the prince’s harsh gaze turned to him. It wasn’t something Griff wanted to do, but something he needed to do if the Tyrells were to strike again. “How many still alive?”

“They are still coming in, but we estimate five to six thousand. Most are injured and may not survive.”

Aegon gritted his teeth. “Why are our prisoners being killed, _my lord_.” He spoke through gritted teeth, trying to hold in his anger. “ _Why did you kill them?”_

Jon’s voice was flat and more of the Golden Company approached to see what the shouting was about. _You are young and naïve, you would have allowed a knife pressed against our backs_. “I did what was needed.”

“Did what was needed?” Aegons eyes were wide and his face turned a deep red. “You killed them . . . they were our prisoners, they were under our protection.”

“They were the enemy.”

“Until they dropped their swords and surrendered. They did so. They were bound at the camp, under watch. _You had no reason!”_   his voice was nearly a scream _. “You went behind my back and gave the order!”_

“I had every reason.” _I failed the father, I will not fail the son. Even if the son wants it not_. 

“ _Every reason?”_ The lad pressed his fingers to his temple, his arms shaking like they used to when he was a child. “I am the rightful king. You will _not_  give any commands without going to me first. _Got it_.” Jon nodded slowly. “If it was anyone else, I would have them killed on the spot. But you . . .” His eyes were glistening. “You raised me, taught me, protected me . . . like a father.” Aegon swallowed. “But that doesn’t give you the right to go behind my back and commit atrocities in _my_ name. _You will not_.” He turned away, his voice became soft and flat. “If you do it again, I won’t hesitate to exile you to Essos. Westeros needs to know we’re liberators, not butchers.”

_Honour won’t protect you, boy. Honour isn’t a shield and neither is it a sword. Westeros can hate me, despise me, and call me butcher. But it wont matter if I put you on the throne. I’m doing this for you, your children and my prince_.

Aegon turned to Homeless Harry. “When you’re ready, I want the rest of the Stormlands under our control before you move against the Crownlands. I’m heading back to Storm’s End with a detachment of men and going to reunite with the rest of our army as well as my aunt, can you do that captain-general?”

The portly man couldn’t bow his head fast enough. There was no warmth in Aegons voice, none of the youthful energy of Young Griff, only a sternness bordering on rage. “Aye my prince, it will done. This victory will cripple the roses and give the time we need to breath. Consider it done.”

Aegon nodded, turning to his foster-father. There was pain in those eyes of his. “And you may go with them. I _expect_ you to go with them. You should know the lands and houses better.” When Jon tried to object and state that it would be better if he goes with him back to Storm’s End, Aegon objected forcibly. “You led this battle, you won it. No reason to stop now. You will do as I say because _I’m_ in charge, not you. Have you got a problem with that?”

_Aegon isn’t Young Griff. This his way of punishing me._ _He wants me out the way_. From the way the lad was looking at him, it was clear that Aegon wanted to do worse. Jon Connington lowered his head. “It will be done, my prince.” _War is never clean, Aegon. Learn that sooner or later_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even before I wrote this story, I wanted a battle of Agincourt between the Tyrells and Golden Company. Battle hardened sellswords verses the cream of Westerosi nobility. It was one of the reasons I wrote the Fanfic :D So I hope it didn’t disappoint you. 
> 
> From what happened, it’s obvious that Jon Connington is taking an ends justify the means approach in his path of becoming more like Tywin Lannister.


	23. Mercy

The taste of blood was strong in her mouth. It was a sour, metallic taste. She dreamt of wolves again, running through a dark wood of pines with a large pack at her heels, following the scent of prey and their shouts before going in for the kill.

Light entered the room in bright cones, where dust twirled before her like dancers in the mummer’s tropes. Running a hand through her hair, stubbles bristled against her coarse palm. _Izembaro wants me to shave_ , she knew _. Mercy, I’m Mercy_. Mercedene was what she had called herself, but after a jest everyone called her Mercy.

That was who she became. 

Except in her dreams, which just seemed to get stronger as of late. Even as she worked, Mercy could still taste the blood and the stickiness on her lips. It wasn’t there she knew, but Mercy could still feel it linger. Wasting no time – Izembaro didn’t like her wasting time – she tore herself from her tangled blankets and dressed in rough linen and over the top she would wrap a thick woollen cloak around herself to keep dry in the Braavosi weather. There was rarely sun in the city of canals, but there was an abundance of fog which made it hard to see far into the dull grey streets. Mercy’s face was engulfed by cold wind when she opened the shutters and breathed in the rank air.

It was a good thing Mercy opened the shutters every day. It helped wake her up. The air was chilly and damp. Goose pricks covered her legs and arms. Braavos was a city lost in mist. She could see the forms of people walking through the slippery cobblestone streets. They were like ghosts, appearing for a brief moment before disappearing in the greyness. Yet the sounds travelled far.

Throughout the canals, serpent boats slowly prowled the cloudy green waters, each carrying people and cargo from one part of Braavos to another. Glowing through the mist were lanterns, hanging above the streets and near the doors of buildings, each producing a low flickering light.

“What is the hour,” Mercy called down to a man who was packing his boat with cages full of crabs, with refuge people threw into the water.

The man turned to Mercy, a gaunt faced man with large ears. “Four by the Titan's roar.” His words echoed. He grinned. “Oversleep, girl?”

“Almost.” Mercy was not late, but she could not linger. She was a hardworking girl but rarely well-timed, something Izembaro couldn’t complain more about. Mercy couldn’t allow it today though, she had a busy day. An envoy was coming from Westeros and another was from Pentos. Even if she served an excuse with her sweetest smile (and Mercy had a sweet smile) Izembaro would be in no mood to hear it.

The woollen cloak that covered her head brushed roughly against her skin. She couldn’t wear a costume, they were among the most expensive parts of the show. Too convince the audience they all had to look genuine, proper silk and styles had to be used to create the illusion. This show required a lot of silk, and finely made at that. Pretty things Wendeyne loved to wear, even if no one else could. Not that Mercy cared. They rarely had places to hide what Mercy liked to carry. She hid her things in the stitched up pocket in her tunic: a few coins in one, a key in another, as well as a knife. Mercy never knew what to expect.

She sang as she walked, earning her looks from wandering Bravos, traders and city guards. Mercy was a happy soul. Bald and skinny, but content with her lot in life. A few sailors hailed her as she walked past. Westerosi, Summer Islander, Ibbenese and Volantene, she knew from their tongues. While Mercy didn’t understand all the words of what they said, she learned to separate the languages.

“Girl, where are the brothels,” asked a pimply lad with coppery hair as he leaned from the side of a ship. He was obviously from Lannisport. The older men beside him laughed. Mercy only smiled, told them where to find them and continued towards the Gate, taking a shorter way to avoid further wearing down her poor cracked shoes. Through the narrow winding streets, the buildings pressed against each other like the poorer patrons of their show.

Mercy made good time when the Gate appeared in view. The king of the mummers had rose the playhall from the foundations of a warehouse. A popular destination for sailors with a few coins to spare, more so then the Dome and Blue Lantern who enjoyed patrons from the higher echelons of Braavosi society. Atop the entrance, painted over the title of their last show wrote _The Bloody Hand_ , in thick red letters. Underneath was a painting a bloody hand, for those who couldn’t read. Mercy turned to Brusco who was adding details to the painting. “That’s a nice hand, use your own?”

Brusco turned to her and laughed. “If only mine was so big. I wish. But I like to think it was the inspiration.” He dabbed it with a wet brush of bright crimson. “King o’ the Mummers have been asking for you, Mercy. He says it’s urgent.”

Izembaro said everything was urgent and acted like it was. He was never a patient man, was the King of the Mummers, as he loved to call himself.  Mercy thanked him and proceeded inside where two actors were practising without their costumes. “The boy king of Westeros is sending his beloved envoy to do the King of the Mummers homage,” he told his troupe. “I will not disappoint a fellow monarch by insulting his envoy.” He was expecting this to the greatest play the Gate will see. Two visitors of very high renown and he believed the house will be packed.

“What of the Pentoshi?” called out an actor, one who played the background characters that switched roles throughout the act. Buco, he was named. One scene he was a guard, another a servant. He also aided in bringing in and out the scenery. He didn’t have a speaking role, something Mercy was thankful for. He had a horrible voice.

Izembaro waved it off. “A cheese seller and a Master of coin. You know who should be more important by their titles alone.”

Snapper, who did all the costumes, laughed. “The cheesemonger? Surely he should count for two or more.

“He’s surely fat enough,” laughed Bobono. “He’s like to have an entire box to himself.” He turned to Mercy and gave her a look. “Is the little girl ready to be raped?”

Mercy just laughed it off, knowing he was only referring to the play. She greeted everyone, as Mercy did every time she entered the Gate and went to the back. They made sure everything was ready and in place, there was only an hour left before the show was to begin. Already the audience was slowly trickling in, but the trickle will soon become a torrent.

When everyone was putting on their costumes for the first act, the King of Mummers stopped them. He told them how they needed to put on their best. Besides the Pentosi and Westerosi, there’ll be keyholders and famous courtesans as well. He couldn’t let them have an unfavourable view on the Gate. Many courtesans could make or break plays on their opinions alone. Borrowing a line from Prince Garin in _Wroth of the Dragonlords_ , Izembaro declared, “It shall go ill for any man who fails me.” A few of the mummers just glanced at each other with tired eyes. It wasn’t the first time he quoted that and it won’t be the last.

By the time Izembaro finished, the playhouse was already halfway full and the actors were all frantic. Mercy who was a great help to everyone heard her name come from a dozen different angles.

“Mercy, could you sew this up. It’s got a hole.”

“Girl, where is my crown. A king can’t go on stage without his crown. They’ll think I’m a mere lord or less. Mercy, I command it.”

“Mercy,” called the dwarf Bobono. “My laces are amiss. My cock keeps on flopping out around you.” He laughed as another aid stuffed padding in his costume to help make him look like a hunchback. He was playing a debauched dwarf and needed to look the part.

She found Izembaro’s crown in the privy where he always left it. With thread she sewn up the hole. Bobono’s cock had indeed flopped out. It was a hideous thing, and meant to be. A foot long and thicker than her arm, big enough be seen from the highest balconies, but with the bonus of being comedic. A veiny thing of white and pink, with a bulbous purple tip as big as her fist. Mercy pushed it back into his breeches and laced them up, all the while the dwarf was making bawdy jokes. “Mercy, with your touch, it only gets larger. Oh Mercy, you torture me so. Only if you come to my room tonight shall I find relief. With you around, I can’t keep it in.”

Mercy looked up. “You’ll sooner be a eunuch if you continue unlacing yourself.”

“We’re meant to be together Mercy. You touch me cock more than any other girl, and we’re the same height.” A few of the others were laughing as they were getting dressed or waited for the play to start. 

“Only if I’m on my knees before you.” That made more laugh. He was teasing she knew, his voice wasn’t slurred by drink.

In response, the dwarf grabbed her chest, his fingers tugging at her nipples. “No titties, how can I rape me a girl with no titties? You’re as flat as a man.”

“The same way you rape any other,” replied another mummer, this one with blond hair and blue eyes. He’ll be playing the prince of purest gold. “But will your cock fit inside her?”

“Bobono’s cock is large enough for any girl,” Bobono declared. “Just push until it’s in, m’father always said.”

Mercy grabbed his nose and the dwarf squealed, letting go of her chest. “You can wait for two years or more.” She rose. “I grow two titties, but you’ll never grow another nose.”

She let go of his nose and Bobono rubbed it. “No need to be shy. I’ll be raping you soon enough and you’ll be screaming your name.”

“Only in the second act.”

“Make sure it’s loud,” recommended Izembaro. “The pit loves it loud, but not too much otherwise its grating on the ears. Make them laugh, make them cry, make sure make they react. You have to please the pit.”

It was another bit of Izembaro’s ‘wisdoms,’ as he loved to call them. “Perhaps I should rip the dwarfs cock off and beat him on the head with it. That will make them laugh.” _That’ll be something they’ve never seen before_. That would be following another one of his ‘wisdoms’ of giving them something they’ve never seen before.

“Don’t,” warned Snapper. “These costumes are expensive. If you dare damage them, you have to pay for them, Mercy.”

After assisting Izembaro find his boar spear, Mercy looked out at the audience. The pit was as full as she’d ever seen, and chaotic as ever with patrons joking and arguing, eating and drinking. Peddlers were selling food and wine to whoever had the spare coin. One women was selling wrinkled apples, another selling honeyed treats while another was selling skins of wine. Some girls were selling kisses for a few coins, and mingling among them were pickpockets. There were a few faces Mercy recognised but shouldn’t have, Mercy had never met them. Daena poked Mercy and pointed out some of the regulars. The dyer Dellono, Faero the shoemaker, Galeo in his blood spattered apron and Tomarro with his pet rat he fed with bits of food, usually from vendors when they weren’t looking.

The balconies were also full as well, the first and third were for merchants and captains and those of respectable breeding. Many of them wore their finest clothes: dark tunics of the finest silks; jewels of gold and silver, with precious stones of sapphire, emeralds, blood rubies, onyx and jade. A lot of their faces were powdered to hide their spots and facial marks, but made their faces look like corpses.

The duelling Bravos sat at the forth tier. The highest above the ground and the cheapest. All in bright clothes with slashed puffy sleeves and breeches. They always wore their slender Braavosi swords at their waist. All of which reminded a girl of needle. Guards were also stationed above to throw any trouble makers out. The Gate had a reputation for Bravos who duelled over slights, whether real or imagined.

The second balcony was cut into private boxes where the mighty isolated themselves in comfort. It was the best view and servants brought them whatever they desired. In one box sat three scions of House Otharys, each with a famous courtesan. Prestayn with his onion thin skin sat alone, but he looked so old that Mercy wondered how he even got up the steps. “I count five keyholders,” observed Daena. All were so fat, but the Pentoshi magister made them all look like slender willows. She looked at the golden haired Pentoshi, laughing and jesting with another man beside him. His companion was handsome, with curly black hair and a stubble of a beard. “Look, the Sealords box,” Daena pointed, grasping Mercy’s arm. While the Sealord never visited the Gate, the box was named after him and was the best one could get. “That must be the Westerosi envoy. He’s such an old man, and look at those clothes. But look, he’s brought the Black Pearl!”

Mercy rolled her eyes. “Looks more like the Brown Pearl to me. That’s what they should call her. She’s more brown then black.” Beautiful through, dressed in a low-cut gown of pale yellow silk. Her hair was black and thick, tied up in a net of spun gold. Between her full breasts was a diamond and jade necklace. Many tried to get the honour of walking beside her but it was rare that she did.

Besides the Black Pearl was the envoy from the Iron Throne. A thin and balding man, with a wisp of a beard dangling from his chin. His cloak and breeches were yellow, bright enough to make her feel sick. His doublet was a bright blue, stitched on his yellow shield was a blue rooster formed from lapis lazuli. A servant assisted him into his seat while two guards stood beside him.

Daena gave her a look like she was a fool. “Don’t you know they were all named after the pirate queen, fathered by a Sealord’s son on a princess of the Summer Isles? A dragon king from Westeros took her as a lover. Gods, Mercy, don’t you know the stories?”

“I would love to see a dragon,” Mercy pondered wistfully. “There are rumours of them in the Disputed Lands. Red and black. Why couldn’t it be one of them, why does this have to be a chicken?” Mercy remembered a memory that wasn’t hers, it was Cats. Silver hair and purple eyes, besides a guard in the white cloak that looked to be of the kingsguard. They were arm in arm and were laughing, but the girl seemed to be looking for something. But some memories were also Arya Starks. Cat of the Canals had never seen a Kingsguard. “Why does he have a chicken on his chest?”

“Don’t you know nothing, Mercy? It’s a _siggle_. In the Sunset Kingdoms they have _siggles_. All the lords have them. Some have fish, others elks and flowers. Those guardsmen have lions of gold. Don’t you see?”

_I see, very clearly_. One of them caught her attention and Mercy thought it was a blessing. The man with a mop of sandy hair. All the guards had crimson cloaks bordered with gold. Golden lions with ruby eyes on their shoulders clasped the capes. She studied the face beneath the lion crested helm. All were Lannister red cloaks but it was that one that interested her. She soon recognised him and her belly fluttered. “Do you think he’s handsome,” Mercy said, staring at the man. She grabbed Daena’s arm and pointed to the one behind the Black Pearl.

Daena leaned in for a better look, like that would make it easier. “He’s old. Very old. Almost thirty, and Westerosi. They’re savages, Mercy, filthy. Better to stay away from them.”

Mercy giggled like a little girl. “But he’s fair to look upon. More so than the others. His eyes are hard, that is true, but I heard Westerosi were rough . . . in a good way.” When Daena gave her a look, Mercy only laughed more, giving the girl’s arm a squeeze. “I need a better look.” 

“Mercy, you shouldn’t.”

Mercy only rolled her eyes and grinned mischievously. “If they ask, just say I’m off rereading my lines. I won’t take long. I only have a few and I know them well enough, but you can never be too confident. I don’t want to embarrass myself.” Not that Izembaro trusted her with the three sentences she had to say, mostly they were just her begging for mercy from the deprived dwarf. Still Izembaro didn’t think she could do them right.

She shouldn’t be involved with the Lannister’s, Mercy knew. They were the obsession of Arya Stark of Winterfell, the daughter to Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. The handsome man wasn’t the target, even though Arya Stark wished he was. No, it was the Pentoshi Magister who was the target. Not to kill, as the kindly man said, but to approach.

“A rich man has desired our services in payment,” the kindly man told her the night before, in the House of Black and White. “Death for many, or a few. You will get a new face and identity, where you shall meet him at the Gate. Who are you?”

“No one,” no one answered.

Mercy climbed up the stairs to the second floor and looked down at the stage.

“Shut up you swine. Now get me more wine. For this wine can never go down so fine,” Izembaro roared after slapping the golden prince across the face. The blond haired boy rolled to the floor and the audience laughed. He was the hero of the story, but Arya Stark knew otherwise.

Mercy would be needed for the second part. She couldn’t afford to be late for her rape and Bobono was looking forward to it. The girl turned and walked around on the tips of her slippers, trying not to make a noise. _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords_. But the guards swords were sharp and at the ready. She walked the opposite way from the handsome guard and towards her target. There will be plenty of time to get him after, the show had many scenes.

Two guards had been posted outside the door to make sure the Pentoshi and his friend were not disturbed. They leaned against the wall. Both were clad in dark plate, with leather pauldrons and two swords strapped to their backs. Their faces were obstructed, but Mercy could hear their muffled voices speaking High Valyrian.

“I can’t believe we’re stuck here,” one said, his voice thick and his body broad. “Fuckin’ Braavos. The shit hole of Essos. Mist and damp and rain. We should be in the Disputed Lands. But no, we needed to come here to watch a play.”

“The worst part is that we’re not even watching it. We can only hear and not see,” said the other. “We could at least be on the ship, playing dice and all.” He was a slim man, at his foot rested a round shield. “I should be beating Vyrmidon and taking his money. Not protecting this sea cow.”

The broad one laughed. “How much you wager the cheesemonger gets stuck in the door. We’ll have to cut him out.”

The thin one snickered. “A single slice has enough meat to feed a family, I’m sure.”  

They continued their exchange for a while. Mercy waited, still as stone. She needed to get in somehow. From the way the broad one clinched his hands, he looked like he wanted something to punch. Mercy doubted he would refrain from her if given the opportunity. Knowing that clients requested drinks and food, Mercy went to find a server, stole a glass of Arbor wine when the serving boy wasn’t looking and walked over to the guards who turned to her immediately.

On stage, the blond king was sitting on his wooden throne shaped and painted like swords. Walking to the centre came Lady Stork with her golden wig and a red silk dress. “Your brother is a warg, girl. A demon from the seven hells. He turns into a wolf on the full moon where he feasts upon maidens and mothers, and babes at the beast. All to fill his endless hunger for human flesh.”

“Wont someone stop this monster,” came a female shout.

“I will,” the boy king declared, holding up his sword. “I will avenge my uncle who valiantly fought against the king of wolves and fell to his vile trickery. This sword shall taste the blood of demons and traitors.”

“What do you want, girly,” the broad guard inquired. He was shorter of the two, but stouter. He grimaced at the wine. “That for the washed up whale?”

Mercy laughed, she had to laugh. “Arbor gold, as requested.” 

The slender guard looked down, straightening. “Let me have a look at that.” She handed it to him and he sniffed it. He wasn’t properly testing it, Mercy knew, but he seemed to be trying to do his job, more so then others she’d encountered. “Never had me Arbor before. Smells like Westerosi piss. But fine, girl. You may go in.”

They stood to the side and Mercy was about to open the doors, hearing muffled voices on the other side.

“Slaver’s Bay worked,” said a voice. “You can’t complain about the results.”

“The trade was destabilised. Volantis is fighting to control the entire bay. They’ll soon form their own empire and have a monopoly on the slave trade.”

“Sounds like a perfect business opportunity for me. It was successful in many ways. Everyone I knew benefitted from the arrangement. Even you, I will say. You brought that horde of slaves from Khal Drogo. What was it . . . five, six? With the trade damaged, you sold them to the daughters for four times what they were worth.”

“I made a healthy bit of coin,” the other laughed. “But that coin is now being used.”

“It’s an investment. I expect you want much more afterwards. Wars are always ripe to make coin off of. That’s why I’m involved as well. Besides, with winter coming there is much more opportunity—”

The guard looked down at Mercy. “You going in or not?”

Mercy apologised and opened the doors and walked inside the box. The handsome man had his chair at an angle, so he could see who entered and left. He was now looking at her. His hair was like ink, his eyes were black also and his ears were pierced with golden and silver rings. He looked bored, which Mercy could see from a distance. The expression never changed throughout the play, even as the rest of the audience made the building shake. “Is that wine?”

“Yes, my lord. Arbor, just as you ordered.” Mercy put the wine on the table at the back, besides another two guards. The box was richly furnished for comfort, with soft plush carpets, cushioned seats and curtains which could be pulled.

“I’m no lord, and we never ordered any Arbor.”

She bit her lip. “My mistake my lord.”

“No, no it isn’t,” replied the Pentoshi magister.

The next thing Mercy knew was that she was on the floor. The air had escaped her lungs from where one punched her stomach. The two guards grabbed a hold of her arms and forced Mercy on her knees. “Little did I know that the Faceless Men will send a little girl.” The black haired man laughed, it was a bitter sound. “To think I would be bored throughout his long play. They’ve finally arrived. But slower then I wanted. I’m disappointed.”

“You were expecting me,” Mercy said, not thinking. _Stupid, stupid. Don’t say anything_.

The guards pulled her up and the man’s eyes looked purple, not black. They were pretty. “Yes, we were told by your master.” He pointed to the golden land whale who still stared at the play. The final part was happening and soon Mercy would have to go back down to assist the rest of the mummers. “He is your new employer, girly.”

She already hated the purple eyed man. From his tone and that arrogant curve of his lips. _If only I had needle, we’ll see if he’s still smirking then._ Not that was likely to happen, the guards held her tightly.  

“No need for violence, captain. This girl is one of ours now. An asset, an assassin of the House of Black and White.”

“An expensive asset, you could say. Nothing but the best it seems for your dragons.”

“Nothing but the best,” the golden man agreed before laughing at the scene of the dwarf rubbing his hands together and explain to the audience his plan for his nephew. The audience booed and one threw a rotten fruit onto the stage. Bobono took it in stride and shouted that the person who did that will beheaded when he takes his nephews crown. That only wiled up the audience even more.

The curtains went down and the Pentoshi finished laughing, his many chins still wobbling. “Captain, when this is done, be a kind man and please escort Lord Swyft to his lodge. Braavos is a dangerous city, especially for one of his station.”

The black haired man only smiled. “It will be done.” He turned to Mercy. “Who are you girl?”

“I am no one.”

“Good.” The captain smiled. “We can talk further after the play. You shouldn’t miss your part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this Arya chapter. I would like to hear your feedback.
> 
> I will say that when I was writing his story, I was going focus on Aegon, Daenerys and JonCon, only introducing other characters latter on. But that would have left holes within the story so I've began adding more POVs. Because of that, my attempt to release chapters on a weekly basis isn't going to happen, and they'll be greater time between uploading. Sorry for the inconvenience.  
> The next chapter should be at the wall and then it'll be a Sansa chapter.


	24. The Wildling Princess

He lay before her, sprawled atop the fur draped table. His face was long, his features plain; his hair a dark brown and his grey eyes were so dark they looked black. Even his wounds looked black in the dim flickering light. Several stab wounds pierced this body – the chest, abdomen, shoulder and sides. There was also a cut going across his throat, but it was only shallow, unlike the claw marks going across one of his closed eyes.

It had all happened so fast, when Lord Snow was stabbed by his fellow crows. Wun Wun had killed one of the queen’s kneelers and chaos erupted in the yard shortly after. During that, Val was up in her tower as she sang to Monster. In the resulting skirmish, the giant was dead, as were six of the queen's knights, including a few crows and free folk who got in the way. Other crows stopped it from escalating while those involved were still licking their wounds like a bunch of dogs after encountering a shadow cat.

Val left her tower after that, as the crows were being forced back and others tried to break the fighting. Lord Snow was still alive – ironic given his name – and struggling in the snow and gasping for breath as the ground eagerly soaked up his blood.

“A princess shouldn’t see this,” the boy known as Satin said, rushing beside her. He too heard the commotion.  He was a comely boy and a loyal servant of Lord Crow but had the same nativity to the free folk as the others south of the wall. “You should remain inside, milady. It’s not safe.”

“I’ve dealt with worse than this, boy,” was Val’s response as she knelt down besides the trembling body. Snow’s eyes had been open but they weren’t looking at her or anything in front of him. “Help me. He needs to be inside. Near the fire.” The boy didn’t take much convincing and with the help of Tormund Giantsbane and Harle, they dragged him inside where Val tended to his injuries as best as she could. She stitched the wounds together the way she learned north of the wall, and chanted the words of the children of the forest. It was her mother who taught her how to treat wounds, how to make medicine and how to properly apply it. If Val went hunting and got attacked, she needed to treat herself.

For as much as she tried, her attempts to save Snow didn’t work. Unlike her mother, Val wasn’t the best healer. She knew how to treat minor wounds using the traditional remedies which had been passed down from generations past but Lord Crow had been stabbed too many times and too deeply. The least she could do was give him some peace during his final journey.

Now he laid in the freezing ice cells beneath the wall. The tiny space had been cleared out by Satin, Leathers and others; both free folk and crows. All took a turn to guard the body, especially when many wanted to parade it around or impale the head atop the wall like what the Thenns did outside their hill forts.

It was only because many of the free folk saw Lord Crow as the hope to flee the Others and reach the safety of the lands south of the wall. But that hope was quickly fading before her. Many were already migrating south, fleeing the worsening winter and the growing chaos in Castle Black. _They won’t get far_. They were stubborn and wouldn’t listen to her, believing they were worth more than the kneelers. _They see you less then human and will cull you like rats_ , she had wanted to say. But they carried what little they had before heading south. Either be hunted down or fall to the winter.

For as disastrous as it’ll be for them, they knew that staying wasn’t safe either. Many of the crows – most but not all – yearned for the free folk’s demise. How could they not? Crows and the free folk had been fighting each other for thousands of years and many kneelers had never seen the Others as they hid behind that giant wall of theirs. Val wasn’t blind and deaf, she knew how the bearded queen and her kneelers saw her. Either a prize to be taken and used as they saw fit or a tool that they believed could be used to control the free folk. That was how this situation started, when Wun Wun killed the man trying to take her the way the free folk traditionally took wives, but the giant tore him apart and swung him around like an angry child with a doll.

“There is nothin’ you can do, lass,” spoke the grizzled old warrior called Gendel, a stocky man whose massive thick beard had once been covered in golden jewellery but was taken from him entering the wall. He loathed to part with it, but it meant little in comparison to the remaining family he had left.

“There was something I could have done.” If she went down sooner, she could have stopped the fighting from breaking out. Wun Wun would understand her and Leathers could have convinced him to calm down. The free folk would back off. They trusted her as a weirwood priestess: the tenderer's of the ancient groves. She had used that influence to help Mance Wayder collect his host and assisted Snow with his peace terms with Tormund.

_A half blind horse, hard bread, hard cheese and salted meat. Yet I still did it_. She could still easily remember the fear which gripped her in the woods. Lord Crow knew the dangers of the Others even if his _brothers_ didn’t. After their words and a light kiss on his cheek, she rode her horse through the haunted forests where bright blue eyes watched her from the shadows and encircled her as she laid beside a fire. Every night she feared that the flame will go. Just the memory caused Val to shiver.

“Cold, Val,” asked the voice of Dryn who stood on the other side of the door. While Gendel was stocky, Dryn was slender as a willow and as skilled with a spear as anyone. His hair was long and shaggy, with streaks of grey running through it.

“Is there such thing as warmth nowadays?” She tightened the fur lined cloak around herself and felt the coldness enter her mouth. It would only get colder, she knew. Especially when the Others came out, where even fire would flicker and die. _Soon enough they’ll get bored of their games and move further south with their armies_. They were cunning, never fighting like warriors but instead ambushing small groups. Always picking apart great hosts and disappearing before help arrives.

Both the men before her had fought against wights, but few survived the Others themselves. They were creatures of ice, standing taller than a man with blades sharp enough to cut through steel like it was nothing. Val remembered the stories she was told from those who survived their encounters. Graceful and light enough on the snow to leave no footprint. _When the white mist rises, even the bravest feel fear_.

“Ahem.” All turned to the door where a column of soldiers stood. All the queen's men were clad in steel armour and with flaming hearts sewn onto their breasts to symbolise the red god they loved so much. Before them was the red witch herself, the woman called Melisandre stood taller than all of her protectors. A beautiful slender woman, with hair the colour of burnished copper and pale unblemished skin. She wore a long robe of crimson, to match her eyes and around her neck was a choker with a ruby which glowed in the darkness and occasionally seemed to flicker.

“What do you want, witch,” Gendel grumbled, straightening up and pulling out a sword of bronze he looted from a Thenn.

In response, the cloaked soldiers pulled out their own swords, these of southron steel. The red witch only smiled slightly like it was something to be amused by. “Fear not. Me and my protectors are no threat to you. We only seek Jon Snow’s body.”

“Don’t you dare touch him, witch,” blurted out Dryn who too had his weapon out, but his was a spear with a fire hardened point. If push came to shove, both of them would be easily slaughtered by the four guards.

“I wish none of you any harm, I know how loyal you are to the Lord Commander,” Melisandre spoke out, her voice calm with not a trace of fear. “We all know that Castle Black will soon erupt in chaos. I foresaw it in the fire. Just as I have seen the past before it came in fruition. I saw the knives in the flames, the same knives that took his life. I warned him of the dangers, but he chose not to heed them. Your people will soon face a war south of the wall against a divided watch and the southern lords. This could be the only way to avoid that.” 

“What do you plan to do,” Val asked, her voice was grudging. She glanced at the preserved corpse of Jon Snow, frost covered his body and his skin was deathly pale. “There is nothing we can do.” She tried to speak to the bearded queen like one of her ladies, even though she despised every moment. But the queen refused.

The red witch turned to the corpse. “The dark god rises from the other side of the wall and only this one can help deal with the Great Others armies. He grows stronger every day, even now my flames tell me his strength has grown at Hardhome.” She looked perplexed, confused and conflicted. “The Night’s Watch is disorganised and will soon be fighting your kind soon enough, princess.”

_I’m no princess, only the sister of the wife of the king of the free folk._ But Mance wasn’t a king in how the southerners saw him. He was chosen to get them south.

“You don’t need magic to know that, witch,” muttered Dryn, eyeing the guards and had his spear at the ready. Not that it mattered, fire hardened wood couldn’t pierce metal.

“It will only spread disunity,” Melisandre continued. “Another Long Night is upon us, you all should know the stories. But this one will be worse and far more dangerous if we aren’t ready in time. That is why I need Snow. Only he can make the watch and free folk unite under one banner to defend against the darkness. That is why he needs to come back.”

“Come back . . . how? He’s dead, he can’t return,” Val growled. _If you think you can bring him back like the Others . . ._

The lady Melisandre only shook her head. “He can. He must.” She turned to both of them. “One way or another, he’s coming out of this cell. Whether you will it or not.” Val swallowed hard before telling both Gendel and Dryn to lay down their arms. She didn’t want their deaths, especially when they shouldn’t be fighting. Both were reluctant but agreed. The queen’s men took a hold of Snow and carried him out the ice cell and to the courtyard where was a platform and a pyre was being prepared, covered with wet linen and hay. Thenns and more of the queen’s men formed a perimeter.

Queen Selyse was standing atop the stairs leading up to the King’s Tower. She was a tall woman, with massive ears poking out the side of her head, a sharp nose, pale eyes and growth on her upper lip. She was wrapped up in silks, wools and furs but that didn’t make her look any less homely. Alongside her was that abomination which she called a daughter – all infected with greyscale which coated the side of her face. Val had told Jon that the girl needed to be removed else the disease will spread. He dismissed her concerns as nothing major, but she knew that greyscale left entire villages desolate. In many ways, Lord Crow was as stubborn as the free folk but as foolish as a kneeler.

The circle slowly opened up and Val saw Sigorn in fur and leather and bronze disks. At his hip was a bronze sword and an array of similar daggers. He looked ready for battle, as were the rest of his Thenns who had their shields and bronze tipped spears at the ready. There were the most advanced of the free folk, but they couldn’t be considered free – they were very much like the southerners. Alongside them was Leathers and Tormund, Soren Shieldbreaker, the Wanderer, Toregg the Tall, Ygon Oldfather, Harl the Huntsmen and even the Great Walrus. Many others were curious to see what was going on and pushed forward for a batter look. The queen’s men pushed them back so Lord Crow could reach the platform. Atop it were a dozen flickering torches and in the centre of the pyre was a long pole.

_What is going on?_   Val found Tormund who was shouting the loudest. He had always been the loudest, Tormund was called the horn-blower for a reason. His bragging was something which normally brought a smile to her face. The Mead-king of Ruddy Hall didn’t need much convincing to come to the Wall which his people failed to attack. As long as it ensured his peoples safety. “Tormund, do you know what’s going on?”

“The great bearded queen of the south and the red witch have set up a pyre. The gift she calls it.” That word made shivers go down her spine. Tormund didn’t sound happy and looked ready for a fight, as did most of his people. “She went to you, she took the body. Why you let them?”

“They threatened us. There was only me and Gendel and Dryn. There were four of them and clad in steel.” _She claimed to bring him back . . . how?_ The only way she could think so was like the Others bringing him back as a wight. If that was the case, she’ll end him herself and the witch. But Val did wonder how the other crows will react. They hated him enough to kill him, so they won’t likely want him to be brought back.  Her fingers brushed the handle of the bone knife on her hip. _If any come closer, I’ll geld them if I’m feeling merciful. May make keeping their oaths all the easier_. “We had no choice.”

“ _Pugh_. That doesn’t sound like you. You’re worth at least ten of these southerners.”

“Mayhaps. Things are changing,” Val grudging admitted. “And not for the better.” _It will only get worse. It only ever gets worse_. 

“Aye, things are changing.” Tormund was tightening his fists like he was prepared to rush the platform where Snow was being laid. With slow steps, Melisandre walked the steps and placed herself above him. She towered above everyone like a slender red giant.

With a command, two man was dragged forward. Val’s eyes widened. It was Gerrick Kingsblood and his son. Gerrick was once a tall man who stood proud, more so then they dressed him in the clothes of the south. His son likewise. But now they barely looked to be conscious, both bloodied and bruised.

Immediately the free folk cursed and shouted, pushing forward but were stopped by a wall of shields. _King’s blood, they think he’s a king_. Her mother told her about the power of blood, especially from those people saw as being royal. But the free folk had no kings, not like those south of the wall. She wanted to shout and get them to stop, but her voice was drowned out by many others.

“ _R’hllor_ ,” sang the red witch. Her strong voice easily pierced the shouts from those underneath her. Her arms rose as the snow fell. The red haired man who claimed descent from Raymun Redbeard was bound to the pole. He looked ready to collapse but the heavy ropes stopped him. His son was tied beside him, the boy’s eyes were closed and he was mumbling something. “ _See the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of the night_.”

_Let’s see what happens when your fires die. All fires die._

“ _ALL PRAISE R’HLLOR, THE LORD OF LIGHT,_ ” many chanted in kind, but many of their words were covered by the wind and the free folk and the crows. Val tightened her hood around herself. “ _MAY HIS FIRES RAGE WARM AND BRIGHT!_ ”

“ _May the Lord of Light protect us!_ ” Melisandre continued. “ _For the night is dark and full of terrors. Only through the vale can we draw strength from another_.” Her scarlet silks swirled with every gust of wind.

There were many crows around, but they were the supporters of Jon Snow and were meant to be keeping the detractors away. The others . . . she wasn’t sure where they were. _Let’s hope it stays that way_.

It didn’t last long. They soon arrived.

Doors were thrown open and crows clad in black fur and leather and oiled mail rushed out. All had shields and bows and swords at the ready. “Stop this madness,” shouted the one they called Ser Allister Thorne. He had his sword out and his heavy cloak barely moved in the worsening wind. His black eyes stared unblinkingly at them. “Bring down Lord Snow from that platform and untie those wildlings. End this foolishness or we go up there and this ends in blood, witch. If you do, we’ll give you passage in the Nightfort, my queen.” He turned to her. “Your retinue as well.” The knight then turned to the wildlings. “We’ll even give you wildlings the gift.” Thorne stood before his men as still as ice, twisting the sword in his hands as those behind formed a shield wall.

_It’ll end in blood either way._ The free folk didn't wish to back down and neither did the crows. Val could see a few hundred crows behind the knight. “ _Six hundred men we’ve got in Castle Black_ ,” Val remembered Lord Crow say once. “ _Most of them stewards and builders._ ” None of whom travelled beyond the wall and lacked the skills of arms of their wandering crows who went north. Val could easily see the nervousness in their actions.

Ser Allister continued, “Those who fail to comply will be shown no mercy and neither will those whose kin we hold as hostages.” Tormund and others stiffened at that. “As agreed on the conditions set by Lord Snow before his passing.”

Many of the wildling chieftains that remained now looked hesitant. They all had their sons and sometimes daughters’ imprisoned by the Night’s Watch for their co-operation. The threat was enough to ward them away. But others stood still, eyes staring at the black crows with barely-concealed malice.

Without warning, there was a scream that cut through everything else. Everyone turned to see the pyre light up in flames and Melisandre continued her chant, only getting louder and sounding evermore unnatural. Gerrick Kingsblood and his son struggled against the bonds, trying to free themselves from the fires slowly engulfing the both of them. _It’s just like Mance . . ._

The next thing she saw was Gendel fall into the snow, an arrow lodged in his neck. Soon the whole courtyard was in chaos. 

Wildlings charged head first into the shield wall and the courtyard sang with the sounds of steel and bronze, wood and iron. Arrows whizzed overhead, impaling kneeler and free folk indiscriminately. Men screamed, as did the occasional woman. The chanting got louder, just getting evermore louder and sounding evermore unnatural as it merged with the screams.

In the chaos, she pushed past the Thenns and others and clambered up the platform where Melisandre administered the kiss of life. Val stopped in her tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit that I’m unsure about this chapter. But I hope you enjoyed it and give feedback. The next will be Alayne/Sansa in the Vale. 
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who has read this fic. The responses were all great and i very much hope that the future chapters don't disappoint.


	25. Sansa

The air was freezing as they traversed through the forest.

Alayne Stone was dressed in a soft coat of lambswool: dark brown and simple cut. She was a bastard after all and it would be seen as perverse for Alayne to dress above her station. For decoration, leaves and vines embroidered the bodice, sleeves and hem in darker thread. It was modest, only slightly better-off then something a serving girl might wear. Holding up her fur cloak was a silver broach of a mockingbird.

“Wear it proudly, my sweet,” Lord Baelish told her as he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders as smoothly as she imagined her future husband would, before planting his mockingbird pin to hold it up. “I believe I deserve a kiss.” Alyane did so, a light kiss on his cheek before he ushered her out.

She was glad she dressed warmly. Her clothes flapped in the gusts of air and would have blown back her hood if she hadn’t tighten it as much as she could. She was cold, but the forest did have a beauty. A cold beauty that made her cheeks rosy and would freeze her fingers if it wasn’t the fur-lined gloves.

Their group pushed through the soft snow, leaving deep footprints in their wake. Around Alayne was the rest of the hunting party. She was a bastard among a group of lordlings, ladies, knights and squires. At their heels nipped nimble hunting dogs who followed the scent of game. Alayne was out of place she knew, but everyone else kept their mouths closed. They had to.

Beside her walked her betrothed: Ser Harrold Hardyng. The young knight looked every inch a lord-in-waiting. Tall, clean-limbed, standing straight as a lance with a body that was hard with muscle. His sandy blond hair was cut to his jawline and his eyes were a deep blue. _Handsome and arrogant_. The heir to the Vale was dressed in a fur coat with a cloak of sable, it was so soft and fluffy to the touch that it had made Alayne giggle when she ran her hand through it. In his hands was a longbow, with a quiver of arrows on his belt, bouncing with every stride he took. People claimed Harry was a talented archer, saying he could hit a hare at a greater distance than most. But Alayne couldn’t tell - after spending the morning hiking through the forest, first on horseback before dismounting -they barely found anything. _Too much noise_.

Many of the nobles who journeyed with them were laughing loudly and telling jests. Ser Joryne Minwell and Jayne Herryng were among the loudest, always laughing and pushing each other in the snow. They arrived to the Gates of the Moon alongside Harry, both were friends of his from Ironoaks. Jayne was more than just a friend, if Myranda Royce and the serving girls were to be believed.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Harry asked, his voice was not unkind but there was a lingering irritation underneath. He loved hunting.

“No, ser.” She slowed down, rubbed her hands together and breathed onto her palms, not like it did much through the thick fabric. He gave her a smile and Alayne felt blood rush to her face. “Mayhaps a little.”

“Your own blushing bride,” Ser Roland laughed. “If only I was a thief or a wildling, then I would have stolen her myself. Then it would only be fair.”

Harry the heir smirked and turned to him. “Why would she accept the likes of you, ser?”

Roland Waynwood shrugged, his face was red from the cold but he turned to Alayne and smiled just like when they first met. “I’m a knight and I’ll be lord of Ironoaks after my father.” He grinned a wicked grin. “I’ll show her the best time. Only a fool won’t be loyal to this one. A real jewel of . . . Braavos was it? Am I mistaken my lady?”

“You are correct, ser,” Alayne lied. “My mother was a daughter of a merchant prince.” She didn’t like lying about it, but she had to for now. _Just a little longer_.

The knight laughed softly. “The city of merchants and mummer shows, I hear. But also thieves as well, who cruelly take what they want.”

“N-n-n-not t-this again,” complained his younger uncle, Ser Wallace Waynwood with his lisp.

“I’m sorry uncle, she just keeps stealing it, no matter how much I try to guard it.”

Alayne could only laugh shyly as Harry gave his friend a look which warded the man off with a gesture of his hands. For how protective he seemed to be when it came to other men, Harry the heir was very eager to share himself. _Two bastards already_ , she thought. _Will he continue when he bores of me?_ It wasn’t a rare occurrence, even her true father had Jon. “I’m not a thief, ser.” She shot him a smile which just seemed to make her betrothed jealous. “Otherwise neither of us will be standing here.”

“May I say that my lady has some wit. I may say that Harry could just have met his match.”

Harry chuckled. “I’m afraid to say that her tongue is as good as my lance.” Jayne looked at Alayne with a mischievous smile that Alayne couldn’t help but blush at, and the laughter came soon after. In many ways, the girl was like Myranda Royce, except Jayne was tall and lanky instead of fleshy and short. Harold hooked an arm around Alayne. “For as much as I hate to admit. It looks like the game hasn’t come to show us their fluffy ears. A shame really, I was looking forward to some sport. But it’s getting cold and I’m sure my lady’s father is growing sick without her presence.” The others were in agreement, they usually found themselves agreeing with the heir to the Vale.

On their way back, both Harry and Alayne walked a slower pace behind the rest of the hunting party. The falling snow swirled around them in the wind like graceful performers at a dance. She gazed up at the grey sky and the snowflakes tickled her face. All of it just reminded her of it snowing in Winterfell during the autumn or summer.

Within a heartbeat, Harry pushed her into a nearby tree. Muscular arms were quick to wrap around Alayne’s body, cupping the small of her back as his eyes met hers, blue on blue. Harry was handsome and whenever he smiled, a dimple formed on his cheek. It was dazzling enough to cause a room full of maidens to erupt in giggles and sighs. Without wasting a moment, he pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was warm, but there was nothing gentle about it. Harry was always forceful, his arms holding her body in place as his tongue pushed into her mouth.

In many ways, he looked like someone Sansa Stark always wanted. Tall and strong and handsome. But Alayne wasn’t Sansa. That was a fantasy of a silly girl who read too many stories and listened to too many songs. Sansa wasn’t the mockingbird’s daughter. 

She pressed her palm against his chest and tried to push him away but the young falcon only tightened his hold, his smile grew as he continued to kiss her hard before finally drawing away slowly, his lips glistening. “You’re the perfect snow maiden,” Harry spoke, his voice soft as he breathed out puffs of warm white air. His gloved hand took a strand of her dark hair and gently played with it.  His other hand meanwhile was sliding down the curve of her back. “The only women I could ever want and need.”

_Did you say that to the girls you planted bastards inside of?_ The hand pressed against his chest pushed him back, something he grew used to when his advances became too strong. Alayne was supposed to be maiden for their wedding, but Harry had never been patient and would complain when she deflected his advances.  _He’s never had a girl refuse him before_. Harry seemed to be taking it as a personal challenge.

He gave her a face of false innocence. “Perhaps you’ll do me the honour of giving me your favour during the last tilt on the morrow?”

She refused to give him her favour for the other rounds. Alayne would always say she’d given it to someone else. It pricked at the young knight’s pride, even more so with him not knowing who she claimed to have given her favour to. Alayne was smart enough not to give names. “Mayhaps—” He didn’t wait for another word before pressing in for another kiss. He didn’t get far, Alayne pressed a finger to his lips just before their mouths touched. “If you win, you can crown me your queen of love and beauty.”

He grinned at that, like a child who had something to prove. “Then I will, my lady. I will crown you before the entire Vale. Then they’ll know you’re the only one for me.”

_For now, until you lose interest_. “Then I’ll be a very happy lady.”

His hand slowly went down to her thigh. “Happy enough to finally desire me in your bed?”

He wiggled his eyebrows and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Only kissing for now.” She gave him that much. _I’m a bastard, a creature born of lust. He likely thought this was easy. What a fool_. “My father says good things come to those who wait.”

“You father is a cruel man.”

“He only wants what’s best for his daughter,” was Alayne’s response, a finger trailed down his chest. “I’m sure he wants someone to love me and care for me.”

“I will,” he instantly let out, sounding immature. “I won’t mistreat you and I won’t hurt you. I swear.”

“What about the other girls you’ve been with.” _I’m walking on thin ice_. She didn’t know how he would react. This could be a great mistake and set back. “Planting seeds in their bellies and leaving them. How do I know I’m not another conquest to brag to your friends about?”

He looked hurt at those words. “They’re nothing me, they never were. I swear to you, you mustn’t fault me for my past. I didn’t know them as I do you. But you’re here, before me among the snow like a goddess.” He smiled, showing that charming dimple which would have made young Sansa fall head over heels for him. Alayne refused to submit. “I will not falter in my affections to you, my love.” He pulled her closer to his strong chest. “One day we’ll marry and our children will ask me how I became married to the most beautiful woman in Westeros—no, the world.” He shot another smile before adding a soft chuckle. “I’ll say she stole my heart when we first kissed underneath the moonlight, after refusing me countless times.”

“You make it sound so romantic. But if you love me, you can wait. There is no need to rush.” They were words he didn’t want to hear and it showed. Before he could argue, she gave him a chaste kiss to silence him. _Persuade him. Make him love you,_ Petyr’s voice rang in her ear. She pulled away. “I don’t think we should keep the others waiting.” He didn’t seem too happy with that either.

When he turned and walked a few steps, Alayne smiled, grabbed a handful of wet sticky snow and smoothed it into a perfect ball. Just as she was about to throw it at Harry’s unsuspecting neck, Sansa remembered Winterfell. When she and her family played in the courtyard: throwing balls at Arya, Bran, Robb, Ricken and Jon. Her little sister – who Sansa made fun of – always saw it as a competition and would make the biggest and throw the hardest, but she usually missed and when their half-brother laughed, Arya grabbed a handful of snow and flung it into his face. The courtyard then erupted in laughter as Jon spattered and complained it went in his mouth.

She was about to drop it when another hit her in the side of the face, leaving a cold white stain on her cheek. Flakes broke off and went down her neck, making Alayne drop the ball and shiver. “Don’t think we would leave without you two love birds,” laughed Ser Joryne Minwell. He was a lanky youth, with a face like an eagle and one of Harry’s companions when he was a ward.

“You dare strike my lady,” Harry called back, lowering himself to grab a handful of snow. A smile was playing on his lips. “That will not stand, ser.”

“I was protecting my friend. Unfair, I will say, milady. About to strike the heir in the back. How very unchivalrous of you.” He too had swooped down to collect another handful. Before Alayne knew, they had formed into two teams and were throwing snowballs at each other, all the young nobles taking cover behind the trees as the forest echoed with their laughter and shouts.

It was late afternoon when they returned to the Gates of the Moon, cold and wet and covered in snow. “I heard you had an interesting experience,” smiled Myranda Royce who was sitting by the hearth, a warm cup of mulled wine resting on her lap. She was a short and fleshy woman with a buxom chest. Her hair was brown and curly.

“It was,” Alayne admitted, still tired from the ordeal. She couldn’t remember the last time she had that much fun. Now all she wanted to do was relax and warm up by the fire, but she couldn't. Littlefinger still had duties for her to perform, and she served Sweetrobin. Alayne was the only one the lord of the Vale trusted. “It was tiring, but I did enjoy it.” It also brought back sad memories from when everything seemed so sweet and innocent.   

There was a glint in the Royce’s eye. “Did you finally do it? In the snow. If so, I must say that you are less innocent then I thought.”

Redness enveloped Alayne’s face. “N-no. Not that.” Her friend only snorted in laughter. “Nothing more than kissing.” _He tried to, he really tried_. She liked Myranda Royce who was a good friend, but not one she shared anything of importance with. “And it will stay like that until he marries me,” her voice was stern to ward off anymore talking of the subject. “I’m a bastard remember. I don’t desire to be pregnant without a husband.” Alayne’s soft faced friend only smiled and shook her head, the woman who became a widow during her own bedding.

“You’re no fun . . . but was it a good kiss? Did he take you gently as a knight takes a maiden or give he do it forcibly, showing the whole world that you’re his?” She was smiling and Myranda always loved gossip. She leaned closer, showing a viper like grin. “I hear he’s as talented with his tongue as he is with his sword.”

“Wonderful,” Alayne lied. _There is just something sweet and romantic about having one force their tongue down my throat_. “The best I’ve ever hand.” For as rough and selfish he was, Harry was improving, growing gentler with her. But it was slow progress.

“I see your face when he takes you, you blush like a maiden—but yet again, you _are_ a maiden.” Lady Royce let out a laugh. “Let’s hope the same fate doesn’t happen to you as it did with me.” That made Alayne smile. “I like you here, especially with Mya away. It’s nice to have someone to talk to without all those pesky titles and pleasantries.”

Sansa nodded. She was getting used to acting a bastard, it wasn’t how she envisioned it when she was younger. People looked down at her, that was true, but less so than the common-born serving girls and servants. She was still the daughter of the regent after all and many kept their lips closed in her presence. At the same time she could relax, with people truly being honest with her - either good or bad - not the false flattery of King’s Landing. Alayne Stone wasn’t wanted for their gain.

“I miss Mya too,” agreed Alayne. She recalled the girl who led the mules up and down the Eyrie. Black haired and blue eyed, so much like the old king. She dressed in trousers and leather. The way she handled herself reminded Sansa of her former-sister. “Very much, even if she’s only been gone a few days.” One last journey to the Eyrie before the snow becomes too deep to travel. The amount of snow falling outside made her anxious. “Hopefully she’ll be back soon.”

Myranda Royce slowly nodded, taking a sip of her wine as Alayne warmed her hands. “Bring back our lords things . . . how is my sweetrobin? Is his heath improving?” Myranda spoke sympathetically. Many lords of the Eyrie either couldn’t wait for Robert to die so Harry could be the new Lord Paramount. While they asked about his health, they would only put on a fake façade of sympathy for the young boy. Myranda was genuine concerned.

Alayne couldn’t say. The young lord of the Vale was as sickly as ever, spending most days asleep where he grumbled underneath the covers in the dark like he was in a nightmare. _He holds on._ Each morning she would inspect him alongside maester Colemon. Lord Robert was a pitiful lord, a young child of eight with long brown hair, and a small scrawny frame. A young child Alayne pitied. “He’s better,” she lied. “When he isn’t sleeping, he says he likes it here.” That much was true, he preferred the castle that didn’t bring back memories of his mother’s death.

Her friend beamed. Myranda was about to open her mouth when a servant walked up in the livery of House Arryn and bowed. “Lady Alayne, your father, Lord Peytr Baelish desires you attendance in his solar. He requests you come at your earliest convenience.”

Alayne gave a nod before turning to Myranda and about to ask if she could be excused. “Go to your father, I’ll remain here, watching the knights in the toasty warmth of my hearth. You don’t want you dear father’s beard to turn grey do you?” She let out a laugh and Alayne politely took her leave.

Lord Baelish was sitting by the hearth in his solar. It was circular room, an oak desk took up the majority of the space and the top was layered with parchments. Resting on his lap was a cup of mulled wine as well as a flattened scroll. When the guards opened the groaning door, he turned and smiled. “My sweet daughter,” he said, standing up, his arms wide. Petyr Baelish was a short man of slender build. His features were sharp and a small pointed beard dangled from his chin. He pulled Sansa close and kissed both her cheeks. His breath smelled like mint. “You’re getting more beautiful by the day, sweetling. The Vale will soon belong to you, sooner than expected.”

“Sooner?” Alayne’s voice was soft. Lord Baelish bobbed his head, almost sadly. Alayne knew something hadn’t gone to plan. That worried her. Petyr picked up the scroll. “This was sent to Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale, or who he calls regent.”

“What is it . . . do they know who I am?” She could imagine Cersei Lannister finding out, perhaps with the spider’s help. _They’ll come here looking for me. They’ll take me back to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s death._ She felt herself shrink at that moment. _They’ll kill me like they did father_.

“No one knows who you are, for now. But they will soon. I've had two ravens arrive recently. Both asking for us to side with them for the latest war.”

“What war, what letters?”  _Is it Stannis?_ She heard he had landed somewhere up north . . . her home. Fighting against the Boltons who betrayed her family.

“One letter was sent from King’s Landing. Queen Cersei Lannister demanding that the knights of the Vale come to protect her son from the dragons.”

“Dragons? Father, what are you talking about?”

“Targaryens from across the Narrow Sea. The kings before our late dear King Robert. An interesting revelation to be honest. Apparently they’ve both been hiding away.” He chuckled slightly, but it was a clearly uncomfortable sound. “The Targaryens, they bring to Westeros fire and blood and they call it peace. Fires set by a Princess Daenerys Targaryen and a certain Prince Aegon—”

“Prince _Aegon?”_ She was told that he died during the sack of King’s Landing. Had his face smashed against the wall by the Mountain. Sansa had cried to her mother when she heard that story and asked her what monster would do that to a babe. “How . . . how is he alive? He’s dead, I was told so.” Daenerys was said to be the Mad King’s daughter who was ferreted away alongside her brother. _What if she’s as mad as her father . . . what if they both are?_ The thought terrified her.

“A boy goes by that name, that much is true. He’s married to Princess Daenerys and comes to Westeros alongside sellswords and three dragons. Real ones if the stories are true.” Alayne felt her legs weaken at that, remembering the Dance of Dragons and Aegons Conquest. “The Vale stayed out the War of the Five Kings, leaving us one of the two kingdoms unaffected by war. I will say the Vale lords are restless about this little news. There are many who don’t want to be involved, while others are debating on what side to pick, either lion or dragon.” He let out a soft chuckle. “Dearest Alayne, many here hate the Targaryens, having their sons and kinsmen killed during Robert’s Rebellion, but many others will refuse to side with the Lannister’s who break customs.” He looked back down at the scroll, clicking his tongue. “Looks like we need to move quickly. Find a septon to annul your marriage with the imp and you’ll marry Harry soon, sometime after the tourney.”

“Are you sure he’ll agree?”

“He’s a fool if he doesn’t. A very stupid fool.” Lord Baelish stoked a strand of her hair, twirling it around his finger. It was gentle and reminded her of her mother. “But Ser Joryne tells me that he is . . . smitten—”

“Ser Joryne? He’s Harry’s friend, why would he work for you?”

“A little gambling addiction, I’m afraid. Ser Joryne Minwell just doesn’t know when to give up, so for a few whispers I allow it to continue his habit. Nothing to worry about, my dear daughter.” Once again, he gave her a kiss, this time on the forehead. “This looks to be an unfortunate event. It’s a shame this came up. But it’s a good thing I thrive in chaos and this news will spread much of it. Cersei and her mummers show of a small council is going to hand victory to the Targaryens on a silver platter and with that, we need to move quickly with our plan.”

“What plan?”

His eyes sparkled. “Your birth right of course. Many injustices have been done to your house.” With a gentle hand, he cupped her cheek. “You’re the heir to Tully lands and the North. With your marriage to Ser Harry, you’ll have the armies of the Vale to fight for you. Many have loyalties to the Trident and Northern houses, after all those injustices done to your house, they won’t dare stand aside.”

Alayne nodded. _Winter is coming_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Sansa is a popular character so i'm curious to what you think. As always, constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	26. Aegon VIII

He was thankful Storm’s End came into view.

Returning from battle was marred by the constant pouring of heavy rain that transformed the dirt roads into mud. Occasionally there were sounds of lightning and thunder in the distance, which only served to make Aegon worry about Balerion. Behind the prince trailed a column of cavalry, all mounted atop large chargers, their riders clad in plate and mail; the three headed dragon of House Targaryen snapping fiercely in the wind above them. Following them were all the prisoners they captured during the battle.

“Looks like we’re back.” _The usurpers home_. “Hopefully Princess Arianne Martell is already inside.” _What I wouldn’t give to be in her position_. Aegon was freezing. He was unused to the Westerosi weather and the rain soaked through his wools and silks. It only just made him fret about heading further north . . . when he’ll move against the north.

Duck chuckled. “Aye. Let’s hope that the fires are burning and the meat is smoking.” He smirked. “Ready to meet your cousin? I heard she is quite the seductress.”

Aegon winced slightly in the saddle. “Ser Duckfield, may I say that is unbecoming of a member of the kingsguard,” spoke Ser Barristan, his voice strong. “Arianne Martell is a princess of Dorne, you will speak of her properly and as her station dictates. I will not allow any less from one of my brothers of the white sword.”

Duck nodded submissively. Aegon had noted the sharp difference between the two of them. While Ser Duck was more casual, Ser Barristan was prime and proper. Not that he expected them to be alike due to their different lives and upbringing. Commoner and highborn. Already Aegon heard nobles dismiss Duck for being lowborn and say he shouldn’t be allowed to wear the white cloak, which instead should go to someone with the right blood. “I will m’lord.”

“Not that it matters, I’m sure they’re only rumours,” the prince spoke out. Aegon knew that the Dornish were more relaxed in matters of sexual promiscuity, but he wagered that the stories he heard were just exaggerations. Jon had told him that his mother was a proper lady, and expected his cousin to be as well. He turned to the head of his kingsguard. “Ser Barristan, may I ask whether it was the right thing . . . to send Lord Connington off?” A part of Aegon regretted doing it. Jon had always been at his side from a young age. The exiled lord taught him everything and without him . . . Aegon felt powerless, like he didn’t know what to do. Jon had always given him counsel when needed. But another part was happy he had left, giving him the chance for independence. Allowing Aegon to be the conqueror he dreamed of being without one breathing down his neck every step of the way.

Ser Barristan Selmy looked conflicted. “I believe it was the right move, your grace. Lord Connington has always been a talented knight and the battle against the Tyrells has proven him a skilled commander. Sending him north with the Golden Company was a wise decision, especially as those skills will be better put to use taking back the Stormlands whilst you meet with you cousin.”

“But what he did though . . . kill—butcher those prisoners.” It was spitting in the face of chivalry. It was spitting in the face of what Aegon wanted. Aegon wanted to be seen as a noble king, a true knight; one that the smallfolk will love and adore and sing songs about. He wanted that since hearing stories of the noble heroes of Westeros. _Jon went behind my back . . ._

“It was dishonourable what he did, I will admit. I was shocked when I saw it. There are codes and conducts what must be followed by a knight. Vows sworn before the seven, rules that should never be broken. The killing of prisoners can’t be justified even if Lord Connington tried to.” He shook his head. “Without honour, a knight is no more than a common killer, or a sellsword. To die with honour is better than to live without any. My prince, I remember Ser Connington from serving in your grandfather’s kingsguard where he was a squire to your father – trailing after him like a shadow you could say, among many others. He would never had done something like that. He had been hot-blooded and looking for glory like many of his pears, but would never have killed prisoners. I must conclude that these years in exile have hardened him in ways I can’t imagine. The defeat at the bells, the exile and serving within the Golden Company . . . the people who served the enemy, I’ll say they’ve changed him and not for the best.”

Aegon grimaced. All his life he wanted to become a knight. After eighteen years he finally became one outside the gates of Storm’s End after crushing the roses besieging it. It was his own father figure who knighted him, Aegon saw no one else being worthy of the honour. He had knelt before the man who raised him and had a sword tapped on his shoulders, where the prince spoke the vows of knighthood. _But what knight am I? I’m the true king of Westeros yet my own commanders order the butchering of people I’ve sworn to protect: fellow knights and lords_. What had been a glorious moment of turning back Lord Mace Tyrell’s advance had quickly turned sour. He didn’t ask for it, he would never ask for it. Jon Connington went behind his back and gave the order. In ways, that felt worse than the killing itself. _I trusted him with everything, yet he betrayed it. He believes me a child_. His fingers dug into the leather reins.

Atop the stone battlements patrolled a detachment of Myrish crossbowmen. Many had fought against the Tyrells, their giant shields providing cover from the few archers sent against them. Each armed with crossbows powerful enough to drop a fully armoured knight. It was a weapon held in low esteem throughout Westeros. Aegon even remembered reading about one High Septon who tried to ban the weapon because a peasant could be trained within a few weeks while a knight had to train throughout their entire life.

They rode into the courtyard and dismounted their horses. Servants rushed forward to retrieve the coursers and lead them to the stable. Aegon flicked his damp hair back and turned to the group of people waiting outside the doors of the great tower. Ashara Dayne and Haldon stood alongside who must have been the Dornish. Everyone in the courtyard bowed. “May I present Prince Aegon Targaryen,” Haldon’s voice rang. “Sixth of his name. Rightful king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The one true king of Westeros. Standing alongside him is Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Ser Rolly Duckfield.” Aegon gave a nod, his eyes studying their faces. “My prince, may I introduce you Princess Arianne Martell. First born daughter of Prince Doran Martell and Lady Mellario of the Free City of Norvos. Heir to Sunspear and Dorne.”

Haldon introduce her as the young woman standing before her retinue. There were many around her. A pretty young woman with the colours of House Ladybright; three knights who were clad in mail and wool, including one with blond hair and blue eyes who stared at the prince with a harsh look of distaste. There was another girl who looked to be fifteen or a year less. All of whom Haldon named.

_A few bastards, not a group worthy of meeting a prince_. Aegon bowed his head. “Apologises princess for not meeting you sooner.” _I’m afraid to say I’m fighting a war_. He showed a smile. “I trust they’ve treated you well in Storm’s End?” He took her hand and placed a gentle kiss to it. He couldn’t help but see her blush slightly.

His cousin laughed softly and curtsied. “Treated well, your grace.” She was shorter then him, with olive skin and thick black hair. Certainly as beautiful as the stories told, but those same stories claimed she dressed in translucent silks of bright colours which left little to the imagination in order to seduce men. The Dornish Princess was simply wearing wool and furs. The smirk on her lips however was anything but harmless. “I heard the rumours and was even lucky enough to see a dragon fly. Five in the world I am told.”

_Six_. “There is indeed, my lady. But shall I suggest we go inside, where it is warm and dry?” That was one of the things he wanted most. To sit beside the fire with warm food. But what he really wanted was to be with Daenerys and Rhaenys who he missed terribly. Princess Arianne accepted his offer, looped her arm around his and almost yanked him forward. Behind him, Aegon could hear Duck make a jest and laugh.

“May I say his grace is wet,” she said softly in his ear as they entered the great hall. Her warm breath made a tingle go down his spine. Aegon didn’t like it.

_Wasn’t it obvious?_ “It was a long ride, princess. A long ride through the rain.”

“Then mayhaps we should get you out of those wet clothes and into something more comfortable then. I must admit that rain is a most rare occurrence in Dorne. I was quite shocked when we rode up the marches. Only when we reached Griffin’s Roast did we discover that Storm’s End was taken and you were marching against the Tyrells. Beating them, I assume?”

“We did indeed, princess. I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.” He shot her another smile. Aegon had been terrified when the Tyrell cavalry charged. Armoured knights getting closer and closer, the sound of their horses getting louder and louder . . . His thoughts were interrupted by his cousin’s laugh. The prince turned to a servant and requested she bring them a couple of drinks, their finest vintage. “I’ll confess that I’m happy to see you, cousin.” _Don’t rush it lad_ , he could hear Jon’s voice ring in his ear. “I will stress what I’m not fully cultured in Dornish customs, so if I say anything inappropriate or disrespectfully I apologise and . . . hopefully you can help me in that regard.” _Flatter her, lad, flatter her_. In truth, he had read much of Dornish customs, Aegon much preferred his mother.

She smiled at him sweetly but there was something in those dark eyes of hers that made him uncomfortable. “No need for forgiveness, your grace. But I would like to speak in a more _private_ area, away from eyes and ears. You don’t know who the people here are loyal to.”

_They’re loyal to their prince_. “Of course, princess. I think my solar will do, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if Ser Barristan join us?” There was a flicker in her eyes. “He’s served the kingsguard all his life, they know how to keep the king’s secrets.” There was a pause of hesitation before she agreed and they entered the room. Aegon’s squire carried their drinks and lit the hearth with dry wood. Ser Barristan moved to the corner, he was all in soiled white but he stood as still as the empty armours on display.

Princess Arianna Martell smirked when the squire took his leave. “My prince, please forgive me if I speak out of turn. But I must admit that it came as a shock when I heard you were alive. When I was little, I was told that Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys died at the hands of the Mountain: Ser Gregor Clegane. My father also told me that Viserys died also and Daenerys married a lowly sellswords son, who I’m guessing is you.” She showed a smile and pressed the cup to her lips. “Care to explain?” Aegon resisted the urge to sigh and he explained the story once more, telling her how he was switched and smuggled across the narrow sea, disguising his identity and was raised in Essos alongside his aunt. He also mentioned that Jon Connington was off fighting with the Company. All throughout, her face was unwavering. She was to check to see if he was genuine after all. “Interesting, I will say,” the crown princess finally spoke when he finished. “And now you have three dragons, even though I’ve only seen the one besides yourself.”

_I hope Balerion didn’t give you any trouble_. Aegon nodded and took a sip from the wine. It was fruity and lingered on his tongue. “The other two are with my aunt, who’s sailing this way with ten thousand men. Lost Legion and Unsullied.” _What I wouldn’t give for her to be here now_.

“Unsullied? Slave soldiers?”

He was quick to shake his head. “Not anymore,” he smiled and remembered back at Slaver’s Bay, his expression flickered. “They are free and serve us, or they can leave if they so wish. They are freedmen and can do as they desire now.” But their conditioning has made it hard for them to adapt to any other life. Aegon pitied them.

“Men,” she said humorously, playing with the word. “I heard men have cocks and they are eunuchs, so if they don’t have cocks, then what are they?” 

_Eunuchs_. “A question for the philosophers. But I doubt you came all this way to speak of this.” _You want to know about the dragon. Well, the dragon is standing right before you_.

A smile played on her lips. “My father is a cautious man, a bit overly so. While he can’t travel easily, he asked me to come and visit you.”

“To see if I’m genuine? I can assure you princess that I am.” _How can I prove it if a dragon isn’t enough_ , he wondered. _Surely that will prove my identity. Maybe I’ll have to mount it before the court_. He would look forward to that, but it scared him as well.

“I can most definitely see that. Three dragons, you take over Storm’s End and crush the roses in the field.” Her smile slowly grew. “Few will be able to doubt your legitimacy with these results, the true blood of Aegon the Conqueror. I will write to my father and soon Dorne will aid you in taking your birthright as well as avenging your sister and mother. The spears of Dorne shall be yours to command, my king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be at the wall. As always, constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated.


	27. Jon Snow

The fire crackled softly as his steward piled more logs into the hearth. The flames hissed and thick oily smoke drifted upwards, filling the room with the strong smell.  

Jon Snow laid in his bed, underneath the heavy covers within Donal Noye’s former quarters. The room behind the armoury had been his before he was stabbed by those he had once called brothers. Laying down beside the fire was Ghost, having got a lot leaner after the mutiny. The wolf was silent as always and gnawed on a bone that filling the quarters with a soft scraping sound. It was a strangely comforting.

“Is that all you need, milord,” Satin asked, shifting awkwardly. A bandage wrapped around the side of his face to cover the wound he received during the fighting. Whenever Satin opened his mouth, it only revealed the many teeth shattered or missing. Smashed by a sword pommel, the boy from Oldtown claimed.

Like many, Satin seemed uncomfortable around him _. Only because I came back from the dead by Melisandre’s magic_. The kiss of life, she called it. _Perhaps I should have stayed dead_. Jon Snow had woken up on the platform, but he was unable to move his limbs or head. He could only stare upwards and listen as the chaos erupted around him. Even now Jon couldn’t walk properly, at least not unaided. A few times he tried to stand, but his legs were stiff and usually ended up with him collapsing. His condition was improving, that much he was thankful, but it wasn’t going as fast as he desired.

Before Jon could respond, Mormont’s bird flapped its wings. “ _Corn_ ,” cried the raven. “ _Corn, corn, corn_.”

_Between everything that’s happened, why couldn’t it have been the bloody raven that died._ Jon would have happily traded the raven for . . . well, anything else. He sighed and only asked for his companions . . . or what was left of them. Satin returned a moment later with Tormund Giantsbane, Val and Mully who was now the Lord Steward after Bowen Marshes passing. _Everything’s gone to shite_ , he could only think when he heard what happened.

Most of the watch in Castle Black were gone. “Many died, many injured, many deserted,” Mully had told him. “Those still alive and betrayed you are locked in the cells, one of whom is Thorne.”

Jon Snow tried to sit up, but pain shot through his body and his legs throbbed. With a grunt, he forced himself up and leaned his head against the wall. He hated felling weak, he hated not being able to move his arms and legs like he used to. He hated it at the wall.

Val looked sympathetic whilst Tormund only gave him an amused look. The wildling was clad in the heavy mail he stole from a dead ranger. He wasn’t a tall man, was Tormund Giantsbane, the Tall-talker, the Horn-blower, the Breaker of Ice and the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, but he had a massive belly and a beard as white as snow. Tormund didn’t have the same easy smile and loud voice he once had, he now sounded a lot more solemn. “What happened to the lad I once knew, one who could stand on his own two feet?”

_“_ He died.” The man who had been resurrected grimaced. _Am I dead? I am a wight?_ He wondered if that was how the others viewed him. _An unnatural creature that shouldn’t exist and instead be burnt._

“And came back,” Val replied. The woman everyone called the wildling princess was clad in all in white. White woollen breeches tucked into boots of bleached white leather, even a white bearskin cloak being held in place with a carved weirwood face. Her hair was like dark honey, and seemed to sparkle from droplets of water and snow. Her face was beautiful, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that appeared pale grey. Her face was flushed red. There was never a more lovely sight. “Not something I expected, I will admit.”

“We would normally kill you,” Tormund interjected. “Your skin is cold, aye. But your eyes are still that cold grey and not blue, and neither are you trying to chew off me manhood.” He showed a smile at that. “You’ll need stronger teeth then that, Snow. Not those weedy little ones.”

“Trust me, my bite is worse than you think.” _Ghost even more so_. Jax told him how the direwolf tore apart Lann and Ronnet. The watch had starved him but that only made Ghost more aggressive and when he was released, the direwolf shredded apart steward and builder alike.

“You’ll have to get to us first and I don’t see that happening anytime soon.” Val showed an amused smile.

“Not at the moment,” Jon agreed. “But I’m getting better.” _The watch on the other hand . . ._ He turned to the letter still waiting on the chair beside his bed. He then thought of Arya, her face similar to his own and her hair tangled like a bird’s nest. _I made a warm cloak from the skin of the six whores . . . I want my bride back . . . I want my bride back . . . I want my bride back_. Jon remembered maester Aemon’s words: _Kill the boy and let the man be born_. “Remember this letter?”

“Dark wings, dark words,” Mully muttered. He had been there when Jon received it and said it frightened him. He was right to be frightened. “What are you going to do?”

“What I was going to do before. I’m going to protect the Night’s Watch.” _The Night’s Watch takes no part in the realms of men_ , Jon knew. But Ramsey was coming after him and as Lord Commander he needed to protect the order. But for more reasons now. He needed to go south after what happened. The free folk were fleeing the wall as were deserters of the watch. Jon Snow wasn’t a fool, he knew many were criminals who had no loyalty to the Night’s Watch; only bound there by some words they spoke before a heart tree or a septon, and held by their officers. Now their officers were dead and they saw no reason to remain. The wall needed men to man her as the Others approached. Stannis was dead. But there were other lords in the south. The watch needed their aid, they needed the aid of the Iron Throne and King Tommen.

“You cannot . . . that was why they killed you, Jon,” Mully responded, retreating beside the fire to warm up. The snow on his black fur was melting, running down his body and forming a puddle beneath his boots. “They saw you as abandoning your vows. It’s not the first time you tried to go south and neither was it the first time you deserted. That wasn’t the only reason. You were planning to send wildlings south, against a house. In that regard, they saw you little different from the Night’s King and his raids.”

Jon grimaced about being compared to such. _I didn't deserted_. “I was younger, more naïve and thoughtless.” _My brother was going to war, my father was executed and my sisters held prisoner_. He was sure he wasn’t the only one, but he knew others remained at their posts while their houses were brought to extinction. “I didn’t desert like Mance. I was under orders from Qhorin to infiltrate, but that’s beside the point. I needed to head south. Ramsey was coming with an army and ready to kill us. He was going to destroy the Night’s Watch and kill everyone here. I wasn’t going to stand by and let that happen.” _I needed to get Arya_. “I was protecting us.” _I wasn’t making my brothers abandon their vows. I was doing it myself. If I was oathbreaking, the crime were mine and mine alone. I wasn’t forcing the watch to go south. Only me and any free folk who desired to aid me_.

“There is barely a Night’s Watch anymore. There’s barely anyone left. Only a hundred and twenty remain in Castle Black, including those injured. In the chaos, many buildings were set ablaze, as were most of our supplies. Many of the injured will surely die.”

_If only . . ._ The past had happened and Jon could only look to the future.  _The night is dark and full of terrors_. “I need to do it. Someone else needs to be Lord Commander.” _A nine-hundred-and-nineteen-ninth_.

“The men will follow you—”

“They won’t. They need to elect another. I’ll be in the south, then I’ll come back with more men and aid.” _I vowed to serve the Night’s Watch until death. I've died, so my vows could be considered fulfilled. I could leave the watch and go back home._ He didn't want to, there wasn't a home for him anymore. Winterfell was under Bolton control, with his little sister being held there alone.

Having an idea, Jon set his plans to them, and after much arguing all groups came to an agreement.

It was later that day when Queen Selyse Baratheon nee Florent walked in alongside her knights and Melisandre who gave him a smile – something Jon didn’t return. The queen’s protectors stood beside the fire in a row, all in shining steel and surcoats sewn with Stannis’s fiery hearts. Also with them was the squire Devan Seaworth and two of Melisandre’s guardsmen. With everything that happened, all of them kept sworn shields around themselves both day and night. Tormund couldn’t laugh louder about it, “I had me a bear once, but a woman with a moustache, a rare delight I’m sure. Afraid to be carried off is she?” The queen certainly seemed afraid after what happened.

“Apologises, Your Grace if I can’t stand.” _And fall on my hands before you_. Jon Snow was sitting beside the fire, a fur cloak draped over his shoulders. He still felt cold.

Her nostrils flared like she smelled something foul. Pale eyes looked down at Ghost who continued to gnaw at a bone and fear flashed through her features. “I expect you would under normal circumstance, Lord Snow. In the civilised lands, it is wrong to remain seated before a queen. But under current circumstances, and that you were brought back from the realm of darkness by the Lord of Light, bless his name, I’ll ignore this transgression.”

_How kind of you_. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He shot a hard look at the priestess in her scarlet dress. The choker around her neck seemed to glow. “You warned me of the knives. Daggers in the dark.” He held no love for the red woman, but he admitted that she may have some usefulness. Even if the other visions were wrong.

She only inclined her head. “I informed you Jon Snow, just like the grey girl on the dying horse. Which one was wrong so far?”

_You misinformed me. I believed the girl was Arya, not Alys Karstark_. Jon groaned, both from annoyance and the cramp in his legs. “And you brought me back, why?”

She stared into his eyes. Dark grey meeting red. Melisandre looked to be searching inside him and that made Snow feel uncomfortable. “Few others would do what you did. Help the wildlings, see the threat beyond the wall and have the strength to unite both of them . . . if you didn’t create too many enemies in the process.”

_Enemies who saw me as doing wrong. Who saw me as breaking my vows and giving me the justice I deserved. If only they knew_. “It seems I’ve failed at that. My own sworn brothers stabbed me.” He sighed, it was a defeated sound. _All the work I did and it collapses before me_. But if there was something he remembered from his father, it was to never surrender when faced with a chance to rein in defeat. That was what Jon planned to do. Whilst the Wall remained, he had a chance to hold back the Others. “My lady, I have something I wish ask about Hardhome. Has it truly fallen? I heard from Val about what you said. That none of the ships have made it. Tell me and tell me truthfully.” _I can’t risk any more men north for a doomed cause_. He had no men to send. Besides, if he was told correctly, many gates had been sealed at Castle Black, the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch. Ravens had been sent to those castles telling them to halt, but Castle Black received no replies.

She nodded solemnly. “I told you before that all the ships were lost. My visions made me see fighting before the white mist swept in and smothered the fires within the caves. Leaving only the dead. Not a living man will return from the ships. They’re coming back, but the vessels won’t be crewed by the living.” 

He bristled at the words.  _What do you mean, not crewed by the living?_ Cotter Pyke did ask for aid after a few of his ships crashed into the shore. “The visions of yours have been wrong.”  _Your fires have lied . . . but your fires have told the truth as well_. 

“The fires never lie,” one of the knights declared.

“R’hllor is ever truthful,” affirmed another. “Praise him.”

Jon barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Melisandre continued, “The Great Others armies are made of mindless constructs, tools to kill and destroy. But their masters are anything but, all process a sharp cunning. The ships you sent may give them a way to bypass the wall and they’ll take it. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea is under threat. If those ships arrive and they drop off their cargo, Eastwatch is gone.”

“I told you,” the queen spoke out after an awkward silence. “I told you that sending ships would be pointless—”

As the queen rambled off, Jon was thinking about all those free folk who were now serving the Others’ as their thralls.  _Every dead is another to march against us_. That was why he wanted to rescue them, to save as many as possible.  _Thanks to them . . . my brothers . . . they’ve doomed us . . . I have_. “Your Grace,” he cut her off. Jon Snow wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries anymore. He was sick of dealing with those who had no idea of what was going on. He was sick of those who denied the truth or the seriousness of the situation and he was sick of them standing in his way. “Please forgive me, but I must interject.” She didn’t like that, but Jon didn’t care. “Things need to be done now. I can’t stay at the wall.”  _Stannis is likely dead, but northern houses remain._  There were southern houses as well, and the Iron Throne.  _I need to get my sister_. “Our numbers are too depleted for the task before us.” _Anyone who can carry a spear, shoot a bow or craft will be good enough_. “I’ll be heading south to rally whatever men the north has left. There is no way we can hold off an invasion like this.” He had already began the process of writing letters to the lords of Westeros and requesting any swords they could spare. Jon didn’t care who they were, so long as they aided in the defence.

Queen Selyse just stared at him in silence before further winkles formed and her face reddened. “My husband will hear about this. His Grace is uniting the realm. You have to wait, bastard.” The knights hands went to their swords like they were about to cut him down. Ghost growled, and everyone backed off. If they did anything foolish, they'll die, their queen will die as will the princess.

“Aye, I’m sure he will.”  _If he’s alive_. “But I don’t have time to waste sitting down and twiddling my fingers.” With all his strength, he forced himself to stand. Pain rippled through his body and Jon Snow felt his legs quiver as they pulsed in beat with his heart. But he didn’t fall. “My queen, I pledged my life to protect the realms of men.” If the wall falls, then the lands south wouldn’t last long, he knew. "I cannot and will not let them fall." _The lords may see me as a deserter if i move south or a traitor commanding a wildling host, but that doesn't matter_. _Winter is coming and I must stop it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took twenty-seven chapters, but finally there is a Jon Snow chapter. Tell me what you think. As always, constructive criticism and comments are well appreciated  
> The next chapters will be Sansa, Jon Snow and then Cersei.
> 
> Updates: Oh so many. Reading the comments made it seem this chapter was such a mess. So I've went over it and tried to clean it up. It seems I've very much failed at conveying the information I tried to set out. Not the best thing for a writer.


	28. Sansa II

It should have been everything she wanted. Dozens of courses, hundreds of colourful flowers collected from the Vale of Arryn. A handsome husband and a position of power as a lady of a great house. Yet it did little to fill the hole within her. It was something that Alayne doubted could be filled.

“Open your mouth, my love,” Harry said with a smile. Her lord husband was dressed handsomely in a sky blue doublet, with the arms of House Hardyng and Waynwood on one side and parallel to that was the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn. He was no longer Harrold Hardyng but Lord Harrold Arryn, the Young Falcon. Draped on his shoulders was a sky blue half cape held in place with a broach of a silver falcon with sapphires serving as eyes. “You should taste this.” He presented her with a red grape impaled on the point of his knife. He hovered it before her.

Giving him a look, Alayne opened her mouth without complaint and was fed the plump juicy fruit. Shortly after he planted another kiss on the lips to the sighs and coos of some of the ladies within the hall. He regularly littered kisses on her whilst they ate. Some saw it as romantic, a highborn falling for a common girl, with more than a few mentioning stories Sansa loved so much like Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones. Others meanwhile showed false smiles. They saw it as an insult on the Vale for its Lord Paramount to take a girl of illegitimate birth and not their daughters or sisters in Alayne’s stead. _They’ll know soon enough,_  Lord Baelish told her, _they’ll soon know who you are and they’ll raise their swords for your cause_.

“I love you, Alayne,” he said, drawing back and smiling that dazzling smile. It almost made her forget the death of her cousin. Lord Robert Arryn had died in his bed. Passed off peacefully, Lord Baelish declared to the lords of the Vale. He was always a sickly child, but Sansa knew the real reason. As did maester Coleman who was imprisoned for the accusation that he poisoned the little lord with sweetsleep. Guilty or innocent, it was still to be decided by a court . . . a court deep within Littlefinger’s pockets. Now Harry was lord, but more than a handful of lords believed he had a hand in his predecessor’s demise.

Harry only smiled and placed his hand atop hers as it rested on the table. His skin was warm. “Do you love me Harry . . . truly?” She had to ask, even at the wedding. Alayne wasn’t blind, she saw the way he looked at other girls when he was in his cups. “I mean . . . you could have had any girl here, all highborn and pretty.”

A soft laugh escaped his lips. “You speak of this at our wedding?” Harrold only shook his head in amusement. “Alayne, my sweet,” his blue eyes were wide and there was a naive innocence about them, “I wouldn’t be marrying you if I didn’t have feelings for you. I love you, Alayne. You’re different from the other girls.”

_Because I resisted your advances_. A few times she admitted to almost succumbing to his wiles, but she needed Harry under her thumb, Alayne’s father demanded it. Sansa’s home was in the hands of her enemies and as the last member of House Stark, she had a reasonability to avenge her family. There was Jon . . . her half-brother, but he was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch who were forbidden to interfere down south. Jon was always striving to be honourable. It was up to her. “Just like you said I was different from my father.”

Harry only snickered. “Little pointy beard and all.”

She remembered back at that feast, which was less extravagant this this. Her wedding had seventy dishes to honour the seven for the special day. Pikes and trout and salmon, crabs and cod and herring, eel and tench and tuna. Honeyed ducks, swans in almond milk, geese and peacocks with their bright plumage. Suckling pigs glistening in honey and served up with apples in their mouths. Four huge aurochs roasted above firepits in the castle yard, each being too big to get through the kitchen doors. Bread bowls stuffed with meat and strew, more bread fresh from the ovens which filled the tables of Lord Nestor’s hall and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the cellars. Roasted onions, freshly churned butter, beets, turnips, parsnips, leeks and carrots and beets. Wine flowed in a constant stream into the cups of lords, their sons; their wives and daughters. For deserts there was honey mustard eggs, strawberry tarts and lemon cakes. There was so many lemon cakes that Alayne thought Littlefinger over did it. Alayne had told him she loved lemon cakes and Littlefinger told her that he had to import lemons from Dorne for the wedding.

Music was being played by a group of bards who sang “ _Knights of Summer, Nights of Winter_.” Sansa remembered back when she loved hearing songs and bards back in Winterfell. Bards were rare, and few went that far north. It was one of the reasons Sansa had loved the south where there was said to be an abundance of bards and poets and mummers. When one did get to Winterfell, she would beg her lord father that he stay and continue to play. “Dearest Sansa, he’s already played all the songs he knows and I can’t keep him here at Winterfell,” Ned Stark said as he crouched before her, their eyes level. “Another will come soon enough, with fresh song’s you’ve never heard before.” But few did.

Harry Arryn stood up and presented his hand for her to take. “Shall me and my lady have a dance?” He smiled, and Alayne couldn’t help but stare at his dimples. “For I would be honoured to have a dance with my maid as fair as winter.” She took his hand and the new lord turned to his nobles. “Come, the night is still young. It shall continue with further drinks and dance.” A few cheered and servants rushed in to move tables out the way and give the dancers more space.

In the corner of her eyes, Alayne saw her father quietly converse with Lord Lyonel Corbray. Lord Petyr wasn’t happy with Ser Lyn Corbray being a member of the Winged Knights. It didn’t turn out as planned but refusing a talented swordsmen like Ser Lyn would look queer to the lords of the Vale. The rest of the brotherhood was made up of eight knights, many of whom were of high prominence and belonged to powerful Vale Houses. Each in silver mail and sky blue silks, with helms decorated with falcon feathers. All would serve her lord husband for three years, all of whom will stay close to him day and night.

Lady Alayne was led to the centre of the great hall where other couples were beginning to dance as the song changed to “ _Fair Maids of Summer_ ” where the bards played a cheerful song for the amusement of the happy crowd. Myranda Royce was dancing with Ser Horton Redfort but looked to be waiting for the song to end so she could change over to anybody else. Harry held her close and Alayne pressed the side of her head against his broad shoulder. “They’re watching us,” she spoke out, her voice was soft.

“Of course they’re watching us. The lord and his lady . . . did you believe you’ll ever be a lady, Alayne?”

_No, I believed I’ll be queen_. That was when she was a foolish little girl. Alayne was a different woman. She shook her head. “Never, my lord.”

“So I’m sure it came as a surprise.” His eyes trailed behind her. “Being an Arryn now, not a—” he just barely stopped himself and put on a smile. Harry knew his smiles were easy to be charmed by. “Never mind. Let us just enjoy this night.”

_You surely will. You’ve waiting patiently_. She didn’t know what to expect. Sansa had been married to the dwarf. He was gentle . . . but hideous and usually horribly drunk, but even then he didn’t take her maidenhead as his family demanded. Harry wasn’t likely to refrain from taking his rights. In many ways it terrified her, just as much as having her clothes torn off her body before the eager eyes of lords, their sons and brothers.

Both the lord and lady danced to the centre of the hall, Harry’s strong hands wrapped around the small of her back. Alayne’s dress was grey and blue, made of the finest myrish silk by the finest dressmakers in the Vale. Besides occasionally saying how beautiful she was, they danced in silence. When that ended, Alayne was asked for a dance by various nobles. Ser Symond Templeton, Lord Gerold Grafton, Ser Gilwood Hunter whose nose and cheeks were red from drinking, and many others. She never had to wait long before another asked. Harry too was busy, getting many ladies who asked him for a turn. He was poor at it, better suited for swords but that didn’t refrain many highborn ladies from going to him. Lord Harry Arryn never refused their offers, always with the smile. It made her want to slap him when his hands went further down then they should.

“May I ask my daughter for a dance,” Littlefinger asked with that easy smile of his. The young comely knight she had just danced with bowed his head and wandered off. Lord Petyr Baelish turned to her and presented the hand she reluctantly took. “May I say you look beautiful tonight, I could say even more so then your mother.”

Alayne couldn’t help but blush. Sansa knew he was referring to Lady Catelyn Tully and not the fake mother from Braavos. “Thank you father.”

“Her eyes, her hair,” he said wistfully. He was looking in her direction but didn’t seem to be looking at her. “You’ll be a good wife, Alayne, and a better player. The armies of three kingdoms will be in your hand.”

“But what about the Targaryens?” They received more news of them. People were saying that the Golden Company were raping the Stormlands and selling the inhabitants into slavery . . . that’s if they weren’t feeding them to their dragons. Lord Petyr Baelish had told her they were dangerous, more so then the Lannister’s or Stannis. “They’ll want us too knell to them.” _Or kill us_. She knew her histories, about Harrenhal and the Mad King. It was unlikely the dragons would forget the rebellion. There were many lords who weren’t happy with the news. Many wanted to fight against the dragons, like they did during Robert’s Rebellion whilst others advised caution. Only a small few wanted to side with the Targaryens, seeing them as the lesser evil.

He only gave her an amused look before shaking his head. It was slow and deliberate. His sharp eyes were green-grey but they were cold and his breath smelled of mint and wine. “They want us to serve them, that much is true. A dragon is a proud creature, but prone to rash decisions. They have their weaknesses, every creature does.”

_Like you_. “May I ask what their weaknesses are, father?”

“Hubris, for one. But on a more—but if your referring to their armies, well, they lack many allies on the mainland. The Lannisters, the Baratheons and the Tyrells will be fighting against them. But that alliance is crumbling thanks to the golden queen herself. They will likely have Dorne and some minor houses currently with more likely to join. Lords can be easily persuaded to side with whatever side they believe will win. In many ways, they’re little better than sellswords.”

“So you want us to aid them . . . the house that killed—” Alayne barely stopped herself. _The house that killed my uncle and grandfather_. “They’re monsters.”

“Monsters?” Lord Baelish pondered. “They could be, or an opportunity.” He leaned in closer and whispered into her ear. “You are the key to the north, Sansa. The North, Trident and Vale.”

“You’re Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

“Agreed,” Petyr leaned back, a smug little smile on his lips. “But my hold is weak at best with those Frey’s scrambling over their castles. The houses are loyal to them only because of the Lannister’s and their hold is slipping, my dear. They’re loyal to the Tully’s and the Starks.”

“What of the dragons?”

He didn’t respond instantly, just leading her in the dance. “They provide complications, but opportunities as well. Many remember King Aerys the Mad, the lords more so then the smallfolk. Besides Dorne, we are the only kingdom unaffected by war. The Vale can levy thirty thousand men. Skilled warriors, well supplied and equipped. When others will join from the Riverlands, our numbers will only increase.”

Alayne swallowed. “But dragons—”

“—can be shot down.” Alayne’s father cupped her cheek, almost reassuringly and rose her up so she was looking into his eyes. “You think I didn’t think this though? You underestimate me, my sweet. I know what I’m doing.”

_In no way do I doubt that. But what you’re doing is the question_. Alayne only nodded weakly as the music changed once again to the song called “ _The Lady’s Knight.”_ Another noble asked her for a dance. This time it was Ser Lothor Brune, one of the Winged Knights. He was a plain faced man, with a squashed nose, a square jaw and grey hair. Littlefinger wasn’t happy with Ser Lothor also being the lord’s guard, claiming it would take up a slot who could have been given to someone more politically useful. “I trust you are well, ser?”

“I am indeed, milady,” was his response. He wasn’t happy, not when he was serving alongside Ser Mychel Redfort who also had a place in the Winged Knights. Ser Lothor didn’t like the younger knight for being in love with Mya Stone. The young Ser Redfort was married to a Royce but Myranda told Alayne that he regularly sneaked into Mya’s chambers at night.

With a single clap, the bards stopped playing and the dancers soon followed. Lord Petyr Baelish stood atop the dais, grinning. “My lords and ladies of the Vale.” He held up a cup. “I would like to congratulate Lord Harold Arryn of the Vale with the marriage to my sweet daughter . . . except she isn’t my daughter.” That let up some mumbles from the confused audience. “Please come up.” Alayne looked at the faces before following her father’s instructions and stood beside him. Knots immediately formed in her stomach. “This pretty lady here isn’t Alayne Stone, my natural born daughter. No, she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, child of Lord Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.” He inspected the reactions that was just confusion.

Sansa turned to her husband who just stared at her like it was the first time. _I’m sorry_ , she wanted to say, but couldn’t. She needed to be strong. She needed to be strong in front of her bannermen now.  

“She’s a Lannister’s get,” cried out one lord. “She’s married to the dwarf.”

“Fear not, my lords. The marriage was annulled by a holy council who have judged her free from the shackles of Tyrion Lannister, the kingslayer and kinslayer. She’s a maiden still. Unfouled and untaken, pure as the day she was born, she’s been looked over by a maester and holy septa.” There was a look in his eyes, Sansa noticed when he said that. A look full of want. “She holds the blood to the North and the Riverlands. Close allies who have been left to ruin by the Lannisters and whose lands are now infested with traitorous Frey’s and Bolton’s. Breakers of ancient customs. But the Lannister’s have just let that go. Oh, I say Lannister’s when they should be Waters, bastards of incest.” He pointed to the tapestries hanging across the great hall. He had imported them from the Red Keep – King Roberts’s hunting tapestries. Many of the figures were of lords: black haired and with deep blue eyes. “These, my lords are the lords of the Stormlands. Fine hunters all of them, but with one similarity I’m sure you can see.” The lords and ladies stared and Littlefinger continued. “Cersei’s children hold no claim to the Iron Throne but that isn’t why I asked you here today. No, I ask for you all to draw your swords and protect this girl from them. I ask all you valiant lords and knights to protect this fair maiden from those who seek her family harm and to avenge her house for all the injustices that have happened to it. During Roberts Rebellion, you stood strong against the Mad King. Spilled blood and been blooded by those who called him their liege. You stood shoulder to shoulder beside Northmen and those of the Riverlands, standing up to injustices. I ask that of you now. Either you can ignore them, silently siding with oathbreakers or rise up for Stark and Tully.”

The Vale lords looked at each other before Lord Gerold Grafton walked forward and went on his knees. “My fair lady, I as lord of Gulltown solemnly swear that I’ll avenge your family from the grievous sins committed against them. On my life I’ll protect you as the lady of the Vale.” Then came house Waynewood and Hardyng. It began with all the Vale houses along the coast, all of whom were in Lord Baelish’s pockets. But soon other houses vowed their swords, even those who doubted Baelish. All the while, her husband stared blankly. He looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

It was later when everything settled down. Servants rushed in with evermore wine when Sansa entered the hall, the black dye of her hair removed to show her natural auburn locks. Shortly after her arrival, a giant lemon cake was carried in. It was in the shape of a falcon and coated with honey. Littlefinger didn’t let anything go to waste it seemed.

Harry didn’t waste time and turned to her fast enough to look like he’ll break his neck. His face was red. “This true? You were hiding it from me.” Harry’s voice was hushed as he dragged her to the corner of the hall. It did little for privacy. Lords and ladies turned and watched. “You were hiding all this from me? I’m the lord of the Vale and we’re married—you were married to the dwarf.”

“Harry,” Sansa spoke softly, placing a palm against his chest. In the corner of her eyes she could see people watching. “I wanted to tell you, I really did . . . but—”

“But what? We’re married Ala- _Sansa_. We shouldn’t keep secrets from each other.”

_That’s rich coming from you. The one who isn’t afraid to run off to another’s chambers_. “You’re right, my love. I shouldn’t have lied, I never wanted to. It was Lord Baelish, he rescued me from King’s Landing, from the queen . . . the dwarf. He—” She rubbed her eyes and his face immediately softened. “We didn’t. I’m a maiden still. We were married but he never took me. Harry, they would have killed me . . . they would find me and kill me. I needed to hide, I needed to pretend to be Alayne Stone. Else . . .”

“Its fine, its fine,” Lord Arryn softly said, embracing her. He gave Sansa a soft smile, his hand rubbed the curve of her back. “I understand.” He didn’t look as angry but some of it still lingered on his features. “We’re married, you say you loved me yet you hid this from me. I could have protected you.”

_Some secrets are too dangerous to share_. “I know, I know. But I was scared,” Sansa lied. She was sure he wouldn’t have hidden it and would most likely get drunk. When in his cups her husband had loose lips and even looser trousers. “You don’t know what they did to me. Joffrey killed my father before me and presented me his head. He called it mercy.” She could still remember it clearly even now, when Joffrey grinned with those wormy pink lips of his.

The young lord grimaced. “If he was still alive . . . I’m sure I’ll be a kingslayer. But he’s dead now and rightly so.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, my dear, and ruining our wedding, but this came all as a surprised.”

Sansa kissed his cheek. “It’s understandable, my dear.” He seemed legitimate in his apology and that pleased her. Harry wasn’t Joffrey but neither was he Tyrion. “Come, my lord. We should return to your lords.” _I’m sure they’ll want their questions answered_. Just the thought exhausted her. In many ways, revealing her identity both saddened and brought Sansa relief. She would no longer act as a bastard but news of her identity would soon spread to King’s Landing and beyond.

The Vale lords did have many questions and she answered all of them as best as she could. Others apologised for how they acted and offered their sympathies. She accepted all of them like she was trained. _Courtesy is a woman’s armour_.

The last to show was Myranda Royce who gave Sansa a sour look. “I knew it. I knew you were Sansa Stark. We were friends, yet you refused to tell me. You hid yourself as Littlefinger’s bastard.”

“You knew?” Sansa was surprised. It wasn’t a happy surprise. _If you knew . . . who else did?_ Sansa remembered Littlefinger telling her that Myranda was more perceptive than most.

“Of course I knew. I’m no fool Alayne, or shall I say Sansa. I probed you about your half-brother. Jon Snow, of the Night’s Watch.” She scoffed, shaking her head before folding her arms. “A friend you are.”

_What about you, lusting after my husband_. She had seen the two dance. Myranda allowed Harry to look down her dress and do _other things_. She was mad at him also, he did it freely without a hint of guilt. “I apologise, lady Myranda. But if you believed me as Sansa Stark, you could have informed me.”

Lady Royce’s eyes clinched. “I could have. But still . . .”

“And risk losing a friend? Myranda, I apologise.” _I really don’t_. “But you need to understand why I hid.”

“I-I guess.” Her – perhaps former – friend’s words were bitter. Royce sighed. “I did hear horrible rumours about the Lannister’s. It was wrong of me.” She didn’t sound truthful.

Sansa kissed Myranda Royce on the cheek and was about to say something when a guard burst into the hall. He was clad in the silver mail and the sky blue cloak of the household guard. He instantly went on his knees. “My lord, my lady. There are visitors who seek your attendance.”

“As do many,” Lord Baelish spoke up. “They can get in line with others. Many want to see the bride and groom. It is their wedding after all.” He let out a laugh which was soon followed by others.

“My lord, it is Lady Brienne of Tarth, and the Ser Brynden Tully – the Blackfish.”

That caused some mummers to go up. _My great-uncle?_ Sansa had only heard of Ser Brynden Tully, the uncle of her mother, but never seen him. She heard he survived the Red Wedding and had retreated to Riverrun. _Is he here . . . how?_ She thought all her family was dead . . . well, her uncle Edmure was said to be a captive at Casterly Rock. “Send them in,” she demanded. She was lady of the Vale now, she spoke the words. Sansa and Harry were married but not yet bedded.

The guard gave a quick look to her husband before following through. Harry stepped in front like there could be a threat. Even more blue cloaks came forward, hands on their swords and spears as three figures walked forward. A man, a woman and trailing shyly behind was a young boy Sansa recognised as Podrick Payne.

“Lady Sansa,” the woman called out, her voice hoarse. She was clad in dented steel armour of deep blue cobalt. She was one of the ugliest women Sansa had ever seen. Her straw-coloured hair was wet with snow and rain. Her red face was swollen, covered with dark freckles and looked to have been ravaged by a dog. Her mouth was large, her lips thick and her broad nose had clearly been repeatedly broken. Yet her eyes were bright blue and when she smiled – she showed broken teeth. Many nobles and ladies looked at each other, some quietly laughed and spoke rude words under their breath.

Her uncle meanwhile was silent. He was tall and lean, yet slightly shorter than the blue plated woman beside him. A stubble was forming on his craggy wind-burnt face. His hair had gone to grey but his eyes were bright blue. Tully blue. Sansa knew he was. She felt the urge to leap into his arms and embrace her family member yet her legs were like lead and refused to move even slightly. Sansa didn’t know him, she’d never met him. He was a stranger to her. The Blackfish only slowly and subtly smiled. “Niece,” he said, his voice was rough but there was a softness laying beneath it.

“You’re wanted by the Lannister’s,” Ser Lothor Brune called out.

“As is she,” her uncle called back, studying Sansa. It made her feel so small. “You look so much like Cat.”

Brienne Tarth went on her knees. “Lady Sansa.” Her lips were quivering. “I am Brienne of Tarth. I have come under the request of your mother—”

“My mother’s dead,” the lady of the Vale snapped. Those words almost brought tears to her eyes. _Is she as stupid as she’s ugly?_ The Freys had sliced her mother’s neck open and thrown her body into the river. Her mother, the woman who used to tell her stories and brush her hair. The mother who taught her and raised her. The mother who comforted her when she was sick, with songs and words and warmth.

“No she isn’t . . . not alive, but not dead,” the armoured woman’s face went redder and her voice turned into a mumble.

“Speak up wench,” demanded Ser Lyn Corbray, pulling out Lady Forlorn from her sheath. “Else my lady tastes blood tonight.”

“And pollute the hall of the Moon,” shouted Nestor Royce. “If you’re less rash, you’ll realise they’ve got guest rights.”

The winged knight scoffed. “Guest rights are worth nothing anymore. Or did you forget the Red Wedding?”

“We’re the knights of the Vale. Not those upstarted rats who call themselves lords.”

“My lady, please let me continue,” spoke the lady of Tarth who stared down at the marble floor. “I swore an oath to your mother to return you to her. I’ve been looking for you for months, since you fled the royal wedding. She’s still here, my lady.” That caused confused whispers and a few soft cold laughs were heard in the crowd.

Sansa folded her arms. “The ground, the river? A feast for crows? That is where my mother is now.” _She’s dead, killed by the Frey’s. Why are you speaking to me of this?_ She turned to her great-uncle. “Is this true?” _Unless you’re handing me to Cersei, thinking I’m the gullible girl I once was. I’m no fool, Brienne of Tarth_. “Has my mother come back from the dead?” Her voice reeked of sarcasm.

“I can’t confirm one way or another, Sansa,” his words were slow and deliberate. “Yet I know she doesn’t believe she’s lying. I’ve never seen Cat since the wedding so I can’t say. But . . . but lady Brienne seems an honest sort.”

_An honest sort? That’s your response?_ Sansa couldn’t believe it. It was her wedding, her true identity was revealed and now these strangers walk in with news of her mother apparently surviving after all those horrid stories of her brother’s wedding. Joffrey told her in vivid detail with glee, savouring every word. Sansa felt her entire body go cold at the memory.

Her husband placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and spoke up. “I believe this matter should be spoken in private rather than before a hundred ears.” He turned to some servants and asked that both Lady Brienne, Ser Brynden Tully and Pod be taken the suitable rooms worthy of their station. They were reluctant but they grudgingly followed. Harry turned to Sansa. “Are you alright, my love?” His voice was soft.  

She nodded when she instead wanted to shake her head. “I’m fine, it’s just . . . let’s enjoy this night. Enough has happened and it would be unbecoming for a bride to be crying before her bedding.” _We still have a bedding to do . . ._ she shot a look at Lord Petyr . . . _mayhaps_.

Like he knew what she was thinking, Lord Baelish calmed down the audience and called for more wine to flow. He then turned to Sansa and smiled that little smile of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. As always, comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	29. Jon Snow II

They hung from the gallows. The pale corpses all swayed in the cold wind. Their eyes wide and staring at Jon as he limped down the recently dug path.

_This isn't what I wanted, but you gave me no choice_. There were rules in the Night’s Watch. Those who rebelled were to be executed without mercy. The wall was the last chance for criminals and traitors, any further insolence would take them to the gallows.

Snowflakes swirled around him and planted soft cold kisses upon his cheeks. When Jon was little, he ran around the courtyard of Winterfell, where he and his half-siblings would create snowballs and throw them at each other, or create snowmen, where they pretended they were famous heroes like King Theon Stark or Daeron the Young Dragon. But that was during summer and autumn, where the snowfall was minor. On both sides of the path, snow drafts rose up in steep mounds to the thick thatch roofs where spear long icicles formed underneath the wooden beams like a row of fangs. Walking through the compound of Castle Black was more than a struggle. It was the reason the tunnels underneath were created but you couldn’t hang people in tunnels.

_It’ll only get colder as the Others get closer_. They were getting ready, he knew. The only thing stopping them was the massive wall of ice before him.  _If they get though, nothing can stop their advance_. Wight’s weren’t hindered by snow, effected by hunger nor did they require rest. They would sweep apart the north like a force of nature that couldn’t be stopped. Jon had been told from those north of the Wall that once they found a target, be it man or beast, the Others’ thralls would hunt them down until one or the other was dead.

Jon stopped and turned to those who were involved in the mutiny. There were others also. Marsh had died in the fighting. The Lord Steward’s head had been smashed in with a club until he was almost unrecognisable. Only two mutineers survived the fighting and before him they hanged. Jon Snow couldn’t afford having any question the authority of him or his successor, whoever that may be.

“So, is this what you expected when you made yourself Lord Commander,” Val asked. The blonde wildling was wrapped tightly in white fur and on her hips was the bone dagger she regularly patted as if to check she still wore it. At her feet was Ghost who seemed to merge into the snow and herself. The direwolf always acted calmer around her. They looked like they belonged together.

“If you mean was I expecting to be stabbed? No, I can’t say.”  _And neither did I think I would execute them_. His eyes trailed across the line of traitors he had once called brothers. The men he had practised in the yard with, conversed and laughed at their jests and ate alongside in the common hall. Some had been craven, some had been defiant to the end, whilst others silently accepted their fates. “What would you have done?”

“If I was stabbed and brought back or to deal with them?” She made a light humming sound. “I don’t know.” She gazed upon the corpses. “I will admit that I never respected you kneelers all that much. But I will say that they showed courage that day, and died for it. Unlike you, I doubt they’ll be brought back. Are you to burn the bodies after parading them around for all the world to see?”

“I’m no fool. I’ll be worried if they come back so of course they’ll be burned. They’re a warning, and will be brought down when the new commander is elected.” Whilst Jon retained his memory, they’ll be thralls.  _It’ll be wise to burn all the dead we come across, just in case._

“I don’t know how you do it south, but on the other side of the wall we considered it disrespectfully to do this – keep them hanging. We bury our dead near the heart trees, so their souls merge in the afterlife where they’ll return after the end.”

His eye brow rose. “Or during it?” All important things had to be done before the heart tree, Jon remembered. Many times he went there for guidance from the Old Gods, the unforgiving gods who were all watching, all knowing.  _Can they give me guidance to deal with the Others?_

“Only after. The Others use fell sorcery. Like that witch . . . I can’t believe you let her remain.”

“They’re going to the Nightfort as soon as possible.” The queen seemed much more eager. Maybe it was because the lesser number of guards around her or because her reception grew much colder, Jon couldn’t decide. “It’s not like I have the option to kick her out, even though I really want to.”  _Although if King Stannis is indeed dead, I could send her to King’s Landing in return for aid . . ._  He didn’t like the idea and earlier on he would outright refuse the thought, but the Night’s Watch barely had a fraction of the number it once had. He needed the men, he needed the supplies. “I offered all of them my protection, under the old gods. It’s my duty to protect them as much as I can.” 

“You shouldn’t have made that vow. You and your oaths.”

“Oaths are important,” Jon shot back, turning to Ghost who began to dig at the snow. Val smiled, watching him too. “It’s a sign of trust. Guest rights.” She sighed, but understood.  _Yet my brothers made oaths to me and that didn’t stop them from stabbing me_. “It’s the least I could do. King Stannis aided—”

“—You against my people. I was right there, beside you as they swept in. killing men, women and children like they were cattle to be slaughtered. All whilst my sister was giving birth before dying.” Her features tightened before she exhaled a puff of white air and her face softened. “You saved him when you didn’t have to.”

“It was my duty.”

“Duty.” Her voice was almost mocking. “It wasn’t Lord Crow. If it was duty, you would have handed my nephew to your king to be burnt by the red witch like Gerick and his son.”

Jon tensed at that. He couldn’t believe the story when he was told. He didn’t like Gerrick Kingsblood by any means. The man was a fool. But to kill him, and his son who was of similar age to Bran?  _Two lives for one._  “I never asked to be brought back. I never asked to be here.” But one way or another, Jon wagered he would.

“But you are.”

“I am,” Jon agreed.  _And I’m going to put it to good use_. The bastard of Winterfell supposed he could use his death as an excuse to leave the Night’s Watch. King Stannis did offer him Winterfell and to be a proper Stark like he had always dreamed, but Jon had refused.  _If he’s alive, will he accept me now or see me as a deserter?_  Whether he was still a member or not, Jon needed to aid the Watch.

Val huffed and folded her arms. “I suppose it’s better than coming back as one of those blue eyed monsters prowling the wastes.” 

“Anything is better than that,” Jon agreed once more. It did make him wonder how many would wish to kill him now. It was true that many who were against him were dead, but Jon pondered how many new enemies he’s earned just by returning.  _I send them against those who were once dead only to come back_. He turned back to the wall, the giant structure stretched from the eastern sea to the western mountains. It changed its appearance occasionally depending on the weather and time of day. Some people claimed it had as many moods as Mad King Aerys, others claimed it had as many moods as a woman. “We need men to man it.”  _Anyone who can wield a bow or spear isn’t to be wasted. Those that have other skills are just as important._  “Perhaps I could ask the queen for some of her guards.”

“Oh yes, the queen.” Val smiled an amused little grin. “The famous bearded woman of the south. Never thought that would catch on like a wild fire.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle. “She’s got a few men. A handful, but in the Nightfort there shouldn’t be any others beside her own, so she’s safe.”  _Well . . . besides spirits and some rats_. “Or not.” His suggestion was quickly brought to realization. Besides being resurrected and claiming he was a chosen servant of R’hllor, Jon wasn’t on good terms with the queen. There would be no way she would assist him anymore.  _Not like she did at first_.

“You do need more people to man this giant wall of yours, Lord Snow,” Val continued, staring up. “I heard that you can’t leave if you said the oath that lasts until death. You died once, why not leave and ask for help from your fellow kneelers? I’m sure being born from the loins of a Stark will give you a certain magical power over them.”

She wasn’t wrong. Many houses respected the Starks, who once were Kings of Winter before being made Lords of the North by Aegon the Conqueror.  _But will they accept the word of a Stark bastard who could be seen as a deserter and let the wildlings through?_  Jon defiantly knew they wouldn’t like him letting in the wildlings. Especially the houses in the north who had to regularly deal with wildling raids, which would be all the more frequent since the mutiny. “I could, something I’ve been thinking about quite a lot.”  _The south as well_. The Vale was untouched by war. But with winter and the war, Jon doubted the southern lords would want to bring their forces north or even provide supplies. “When I travel south, are you coming with me like so many others, or are you going to remain in your tower like a princess?”  _The ones Sansa loved to read about. Only this time there won’t be a giant protecting you._

“I’m no princess, Lord Snow. I’m not one of your precious maidens who needs a man’s protection,” she snickered. “I can take of myself, better then you most likely.” He only gave her a sour look and she laughed. “Who else is coming for coming for your little expedition south? None of your brothers most likely.”

“A handful, but only to Karhold. I plan on aiding Alys Karstark who in turn is willing to aid the watch. What limited supplies she’s got as well as any men.” Mostly greybeards, but old men were better than none. “Then my brothers are returning to Castle Black. While we’ll move towards Winterfell.”

“Your home. Deserting once more?”

“No I won’t. Ramsey threatened the Watch, that can’t stand.”

Val grinned. “You think you can travel in your condition, what about fight? Perhaps I’ll have to defend you.”

“No, I can fight. I’ve been practising with Tormund.” The Mead-King of Ruddy Hall had thrown Jon to the ground so many times throughout their bouts. He knew it would happen as his body slowly recovered from death, but it didn’t make him feel any less bitter. “He’s a good fighter but can’t stop boasting.”

“Tormund bragging?” She laughed and leaned in closer, her voice getting softer. “A braggart he is at heart. Maybe because his manhood isn’t as big as he claims.”

Snow only backed away, plastering a look of shock. “You’re telling me that a man who brags about his prick every chance he gets may be compensating for something. Princess, I’m shocked you dare suggest such a thing.”  _He did say a bear bit it off_. Yet Tormund would still brag that even afterwards it’ll still be bigger than his. It was Pyp who jested that if the bear didn’t bite it off, Tormund would be nicknamed the three legged man.  

She shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. “That’s directly what I’m suggesting, Lord Crow.” She turned to the wall. “Perhaps your ancestors were also compensating for something when they built this monstrosity. It certainly seems larger then it could have been.”

“Yet it may not be big enough.” He recalled Old Nans tales of the Others riding massive ice spiders.  _If that is true, they could possibly climb up_. That thought made him shudder. Jon was never a fan of spiders and seeing ones as large as horses . . . he didn’t even want to think about it. 

Val smiled sweetly and patted the Direwolf’s head, her gloved hands disappearing in the thick white fur. “But what about you Lord Snow. Are you compensating for anything?”

Jon felt himself blush despite himself. “I ensure you that I’m not.”  _She believes I captured her_.  _No, I can’t_. It wasn’t right. Val was beautiful, that couldn’t be disputed. She was smart, knew how to use a spear and bow, was more resourceful then any woman he knew, as well as being respected by the free folk. They followed and trusted her.  

The wildling princess shook her head. “You turn red like a young boy who’s discovered a naked woman the first time.” She then laughed once more, it was a sweet sound.

Jon only felt himself get redder. “You speak of things you have no knowledge in.”

The wildling princess only cocked her head. “Then perhaps you’ll care to educate me.” She patted the bone knife on her hip. “If you’re more man then boy, you can come to try and steal me away tonight.” She shot him another grin, turned on her heels and walked away.

For a moment, Jon thought about taking her up on the offer but he was quick to shake it away.  _Remember Ygritte, remember your vows_. Jon could, he remembered standing over her body with an arrow protruding from her side, where she died in his arms. The vows he said were words people were meant to follow. He tried and he failed many times.  _Do the vows I made matter now?_  A member of the watch serve only to death, but Jon Snow was alive, brought back from the void.  _For this night and all nights to come . . ._

_You won’t be betraying your vows as you’ve completed them_ , a voice rang in his head.  _You did your duty, to the Night’s Watch and have died for it_.

Jon couldn’t. He had sworn a vow when he travelled north. The Watch was his family and if he left, it’ll be like he was betraying them.  _This is not the family you choose, but the one you’re left with_ , he believed were his uncle’s words but he couldn’t remember clearly. Many things he couldn’t remember clearly or were just a hole in his mind. Jon sighed and turned to Ghost who only looked up at him and tilted his head to the side like he used to do when he was a mere pup. If he did go further south like he planned, more people will hate him and the southern lords would likely see him as a deserter like so many others and execute him, just like his father did. But if he didn’t, he couldn’t recruit more men. He may have died, but he swore his service to the Watch and would serve it. Whether his oath was void or not.

It was later when Jon Snow was eating a bowl of venison and barley stew that Satin knocked on the door and entered. “Jon, there have been riders from King Stannis. T-there is someone you should see. It’s . . . she says she’s Arya Stark.”

Jon immediately froze.  _Arya . . . she’s here?_  He dropped his spoon with a plop and immediately stood up. He arose up too fast and his body groaned in pain as a result. Jon held the chair for balance. “Where, where is she? Take me to her.” He could still remember her clearly: skinned knobby knees, a long and gawky face, dark grey eyes and tangled brown hair.

With haste, Satin lead him out the quarters behind the armoury and to a large group of men. Six of whom bore the colours of Stannis Baratheon. Alongside them looked to be seven men of House Greyjoy and the Island Isles. They were gaunt figures and many were victims of frostbite. Leading the column was Ser Justin Massey with his cheeks flushed pink and a mop of white blond hair. The white surcoat he wore had a triple spiral of red, green and blue. Beside him was a woman with the colours and bear of House Mormont. She was a short woman who was wrapped up in fur and ringmail and a padded gambeson. Opposite her was the Braavosi banker Tycho Nestoris, a man who Jon needed to see, now more than ever. Just behind the Braavosi and Mormont was a young girl mounted atop a small northern horse. The tip of her nose was black and missing from frostbite.

It wasn’t Arya.

“Good to see you once again, Lord Commander,” Ser Justin called out with that same easy smile Jon remembered seeing. The bastard of Winterfell didn’t smile. “We’ve finally returned to civilisation. May I introduce you to Lady Alysane Mormont, heir to Bear Island. Look here, we’ve got something for you as well.” With a gesture, the girl they called Arya rode nervously forward. As Jon got closer, he could see her hair was dark but her eyes were the wrong colour just as her face was different. The girl might have been pretty if not for the frostbite but Arya had never been pretty with her long and solemn face. “What do you think, we’ve got your little sister. Lady Arya Stark, rescued from the clutches of Ramsey Snow. We’re sorry for the nose, but it’s chilly as you know.”

Jon found himself shaking.  _They brought me the wrong girl. The letter said that they captured Arya._  “That is not my sister,” his words came out as a soft growl. The knight glanced at the others and Snow raised his voice. “That is not my sister. Who is this imposter?” He had a few clues.

The girl immediately looked to faint and Stannis’ men looked at themselves like Jon was a fool. “Lord Commander, this is Arya Stark, your trueborn sister. The one they married to Ramsey Snow.”

_That is not my sister_ , he wanted to yell but he remembered his manners, Jon barely kept his face straight. His hands clenched into a fist and he strongly felt the urge to hit something. “The weather is cold. Perhaps we should talk inside. I’ll have my steward to escort your men, where they can be provided food and shelter. I’m sure it’s been a long trip from . . .”

“Winterfell,” the knight answered. “King Stannis has set to move out against the Bolton’s and their allies who are hiding behind the walls." He put on a smile. “Thanks to you, our numbers have swollen. Fifteen hundred when we left and more than five thousand now. I was requested to thank you on behalf of the one true king of Westeros.”

Snow only inclined his head before turning to Tycho Nestoris. “If possibly, my lord, I would like to speak with you later.” The long bearded man only gave a nod. Snow thanked him before leading the others inside. The room smelled of smoke and grease, the fire continued to burn but it was slowly dying. Satin wasn’t as diligent a steward as Dolorous Edd had been. Ser Justin and Lady Alysane Mormont, as well as the girl, stood beside the fire to warm up. Then Jon remembered.  _Jeyne Poole, the friend of my other sister._ The girl who belittled Arya and would trail Sansa around like a shadow. “Who is this girl, ser?”

“Arya Stark . . . Bolton?” The knight sounded unsure and turned to the girl. “The girl the Bolton’s declared was your sister.”

“This isn’t my sister. I think I would recognise Arya, the girl I’d grown up with.”

The girl looked about to cry before taking a step forward, closer to the fire. She was dressed in a fur coat that made her look so small and snow dripped down her face as it slowly regained colour. Jeyne went on her knees before him. “My lord—”

“I’m no lord.”

“I apologise, and beg forgiveness,” her voice was weak. “I’m not Arya Stark as many claim. I’m Jeyne Poole, daughter of Vayne Poole, former steward of Winterfell.” That last bit seemed more for the confused looking knight.

“I know who you are girl.”  _They were wrong. They deceived me. Arya was never there, she was never in Winterfell. It was you, they claimed you were my sister_. In the visions, he had thought it was Arya, but later Alys Karstark. Jon thought of rescuing his sister from Bolton but it ended up as Jeyne Poole. “But why?” The girl swallowed, tears running down her cheeks but she kept her lips closed.  _I don’t have time for this . . . but . . ._ Jon Snow ordered Satin steward to fetch them food and drink, he was sure they’ll need much of it.

He talked to her as gently as he could and it took a while for Jeyne to slowly open herself up. Many times her brown eyes snapped to both the knight and Lady Mormont, occasionally the door like she was afraid the bastard of House Bolton would smash in. She told them about King’s Landing and being taken by Lord Petyr Baelish where she was trained in one of his brothels - which was how she got the scars on her back. Then she was told to impersonate Arya Stark in order to give the Bolton’s legitimacy as Lord Paramount’s of the North before she was raped by Ramsey. Afterwards Jeyne was rescued by Theon Greyjoy and brought to Stannis Baratheon where he ordered her to be taken to Castle Black.

_Bloody hells_ , Jon thought when Jeyne finished. He leaned back on his chair and rubbed his forehead. He was sure that Jeyne wouldn’t be safe in Castle Black and Jon planned to ask Tycho Nestoris to take her back to Braavos if possible. Satin escorted her out the room and Jon turned to both Lady Alysane and Ser Justin Massey. “It seems that neither of you were aware.”

“I’m afraid not, Lord Commander,” spoke the knight. “Pretending to be a lady. Dishonourable. The Boltons and the Lannisters, as if their deceit couldn’t get worse.”

Jon nodded, but he wasn’t interested in what Ser Massey wanted to say.  _My sister was never captured_. He clinched his teeth.  _She’s either dead or missing still_. A part of him knew it was the former. She was tough but the world was harsh and Arya was only a little girl. “Ser, my lady, are you going back south again, what of those Ironborn?”

“The Ironborn,” spoke Alysane Mormont, “are here to take the black. The Braavosi only wanted them as an escort up north. It was escort him here and take the black or execution. They picked the right choice.”

_Or the wrong choice_. He couldn’t refuse them, the Watch needed the men and the seven Ironborn were likely experienced warriors who would prove useful in the coming battles. “I thank you for that. We need all the men we can get.”

“Aye, against the Others,” continued Lady Mormont. “We were told about that, and it seems you had a little battle happen here recently.”

“That’s why I need help,” Jon continued. “Are you returning to King Stannis, either of you?”

“I might. Do you plan on keeping the imposter here? Else I could always send her to Bear Island. I’m returning south and will fight until the Ironborn and Boltons are destroyed.”

Ser Massey shook his head. “I’m to sail to Braavos with the banker. King Stannis requests sellswords and plans to get them from the Iron Bank.”

The former Lord Commander inclined his head. “I request you take her with you to Braavos."

“Where she’ll be safe and out the way?”

“Indeed.” He wondered if Stannis knew she was an imposter. If he didn’t, Jon would have to tell him when he asked for aid.  _He’ll likely grind his teeth_.

After both knight and lady left, Jon leaned back on his seat, rubbing the bristles on his chin. It didn’t take long for Satin to knock and enter, escorting the representative of the Iron Bank. He was a tall and thin man, with a gaunt narrow face, dark eyes and a long thin beard that almost reached his waist. Atop his head as a long pointed hat and he was dressed in a sober purple robe with a high stiff collar. “It seems that war hasn’t stopped you,” Jon Snow remarked, before asked for Satin to bring them warm wine and food.

“There are many dangers in this world but those who serve the Iron Bank face as many as those who serve the Iron Throne.” His voice was flat. “May I ask why you desire to see me, Lord Commander?”

_Former Lord Commander_ , Jon wanted to correct but he only bowed his head. “A few reasons, I can ensure you. You remember our previous discussion?”

“How can I forget?” The Braavosi seemed to be getting more comfortable in his chair. “You wanted food and other supplies for the Night’s Watch and asked for a loan, as well as managing to haggle a good deal for yourself.” Tycho fiddled with his beard.

_You haggle like a crone with a codfish, Lord Snow. Did Lord Eddard father you on a fishwife,_  were Stannis’ words. “Indeed.” Jon bit his lip.  _The watch was rich in turnips, once. But poor in coin_. The free folk’s gold and metals was surely in Eastwatch and ready to be shipped across the Narrow Sea. They could be used for the Iron Bank. “I would like to ask for another deal.”

Nestoris eyed him cautiously. “Are you unsatisfied with our previous arrangement? Should you be reminded that you swore an oath and signed your name in agreement to the terms agreed between the Watch and the Iron Bank?”

“I’m not going back on our deal,” Jon assured him. “Since you’ve left, things have been harder.”  _I died, the watch is effectively non-existent and free folk are migrating south beyond the gift. Much of our food is gone and we’re dirt poor_. “I just desire for the terms to be altered when faced with our new dilemma.” The Iron Bank had a fearsome reputation for collecting their debts but Jon Snow was in such a situation where he just didn’t care.

“In what way, Lord Snow?” Satin soon returned, almost tripping over a stool and placed a plate of food as well as filling two cups of wine warmed over the fire. While it wasn’t the best, the Braavosi didn’t complain and just looked to be pleased sitting by the hearth.

“You may have seen the burnt buildings outside, but after you left, there was fighting between some free folk and brothers of the watch. During that, some of our food stores were burnt and we need more coin to see the winter.” He also needed men, but Jon knew that sellswords won’t be possible. The food was most important and something he wouldn’t budge on.

“Please let me express my apologies for these unfortunate circumstances which have befallen you. You have my sympathies.” Tycho Nestoris didn’t look it, his face was impassive. “I understand your worries but I must question on how you can afford this change of plans? It is true that my associates in the Iron Bank haven’t received the contract, so you won’t be charged a fee for changing our agreement. Care you tell me how you can afford this?”

“The free folk, they were charged to pass the wall. Gold, any jewellery, anything that had a price.”  _Some were worthless, some could be worth a hefty sum_. Amber, gold, torc’s, daggers, broaches and gemstones; goblets, war horns, drinking horns and jade and pearls, he could still remember. All were handed to the guards by the gate to be counted by Bowen Marsh who concluded it may be enough.  _Hopefully it’ll still be enough_.

“A toll? Have you any records of them. If so, I would very much like to see them.”

_Thank you Rowan Marsh, you bloody turncoat_. Jon felt some relief. The former lord steward always made sure to have records on any transactions, he was sure to have written it down. Turning to Satin, Jon ordered the steward to find it and did after some searching. During that time, Jon Snow and Tycho Nestoris were busy coming to a new agreement. When the Braavosi scanned through the documents, he looked up and nodded in confirmation.

“So how as your meeting with the bearded man,” Val asked playfully the next day. They all stood near the entrance to Castle Black before a seven hundred strong wildlings host. Standing before them were their family patriarchs, matriarchs and tribal chieftains. Many had the looted weapons and armour of fallen black brothers. Among them were less than two hundred Thenns with their bronze armour and weapons if they didn’t wield steel. Magnar Sigorn stood alongside his wife Alys. Only a few of the army’s numbers were black brothers, who had their own objective and would bring back supplies and men from Karhold

Knowing she was referring to the deal the night previously, Jon sighed. It was longer than the previous one and just as dull. “It was fun,” he lied.

“As fun as a stab to the heart?”

“Worse.” 

“You’ll know.” She shot him a smile.

Jon only grimaced and walked over to the various leaders of the host. The Night’s Watch was just happy to get rid of many wildling warriors. They planned to keep only a small token force at Castle Black, the rest of their force was to be divided between the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-sea. That the best decision, Jon thought, they barely had enough men and both the castles on the flanks needed reinforcements.  _I’m no longer Lord Commander so I have no say. I’m now just a wandering crow, recruiting men for the watch._  That was what he’ll say if any asked.  _But how to explain the wildlings . . ._

“Jon Snow,” came a voice that sent shivers down his spine. The former Lord Commander turned to Melisandre who towered above him in her red dress and glowing ruby around her neck. Jon could never cease to wonder how she wasn’t freezing. “I assume you’re taking your leave now.”

_Without you I hope_. “I’m afraid to say I am. The Night’s Watch needs help and I’m sure Queen Selyse Baratheon needs yours.” Already many wildlings were giving the priestess looks.

“You may also need my help, Jon Snow.”

_She brought you back, bastard, you won’t be here without her and neither would the Watch or the free folk_. He sighed, letting out a puff of white air. “My lady, may I ask why that may be?” The words almost came out as a growl in his throat.

The red priestess's lips curved. “I desire to travel with you.”

“Why? I’m sure that your queen would love to keep you close.”  _Like you, the queen loves fire and burning people alive_.

“I’ve seen the letter and didn't believe it for a second. The flames would have told me if the King Stannis had perished. They haven’t. He’s still alive and would desire to meet you after all that has happened. I know you’re heading to Winterfell.”

Jon sighed. “The letter claims he’s dead.”

“Many letters are fake, Jon Snow. I don’t trust it, and neither should you. King Stannis is alive and he’ll save the realm and the Watch from the Great Other and his thralls.”

Releasing another breath of white air, Jon Snow relented. “As long as you don’t cause trouble.” He wandered how the wildlings would react to her but the various thoughts weren’t pretty. Many hated her, many would likely want to fuck her while others both hated her and still wanted to fuck her.  _What an army I’ve got_. The Thenns were the only ones who knew formations but it could only be considered simple at best.  _None will last against any southern host_.

He gave the so-called army on final look.  _This is the best chance I have to rescue the Night’s Watch, and turn back winter. May the gods help me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* I’m ready for the comments. I just hope it’s better than the previous Jon chapter. I will say that I’m not a fan this chapter, nor am I comfortable writing Jon Snow as a character. But I have to post something else the story I have planned won’t make sense. As always, constructive criticism is welcome, and likely needed.
> 
> Cersei will be next, then Daenerys.


	30. The Golden Queen

At dinner they both feasted on a castle sow smothered with honey, peppered with cloves and dried cherries. It was the second course after a bowl of rich foamy soup of leeks and venison. Alongside the smoked beef, Cersei nibbled on soft white cheese and freshly baked apples. It wasn’t the best she’d eaten but the Tyrell food caravans to the capital had been much delayed since the fighting within the Reach and the Targaryen invasion.

Tommen was happy and talkative, regaling his mother with tales of his exploits around the keep with the kittens who trailed him as he dribbled honey onto a piece of bread warm from the ovens. “Ser Pounce jumped onto my lap in the library while I was reading, but Boots pushed him off and they wrestled on the floor. They got too close to Lady Whiskers and she hissed.”

_So sweet and innocent_ , thought the queen as she smiled and listened. _How can he hope to rule this cruel world?_ He wasn’t strong like his brother Joff. Her firstborn knew what it was to be king, a _proper_ king. _He took what he wanted like a true ruler should_. As a mother, Cersei only wanted to protect her son against all the enemies who seeked to steal what was his. If she didn’t shield him, the Iron Throne will be his fall. “Ser Pounce must protect his rights, like a true king must.”

The king licked the honey from his fingers and giggled softly. “He will always protect me, like a knight . . . when is Ser Loras coming back? I want to learn the sword and the lance, be a true knight—like in the stories. I don’t like Ser Meryn Trant . . . he scares me and he’s rough.”

Cersei affectionately stroked her son’s hair. His golden curls reminded her so much of Joffrey and Myrcella, and herself when she was younger. “I’m sorry, Tommen. But Ser Loras won’t be coming back to train you.” She remembered telling the little cub not to mention him again. _Not that it matters now_.

She had been pleased when the news arrived. Cersei had almost laughed before what remained of the royal court. But like a true queen, she held it in and feigned shock and sadness. The messenger reported that the little filly’s precious brother had died from the burns he received storming Dragonstone. The maesters couldn’t save him, or the ruin that was his face. Soon Loras was to set sail back to King’s Landing and be buried at the Great Sept. _What will the fat rose think when his precious daughter is sentenced and his favourite son a swollen mess?_ She wanted to see his face when he returned from dealing with the Targaryens . . . _if_ he returned.

The queen had been more than pleased to see his back when Lord Tyrell rode down the Kingsroad, vowing to slay the dragon and bring back their heads. Twenty thousand Tyrells left the city, halving their number. _I need to remove Tarly’s army and then I can do as I must_. She saw it as a victory. If Lord Tyrell won the battle, he would have removed the Targaryen threat. If he died . . . well, that would be a disaster for the Tyrells who’d been a thorn in her back. Afterwards, Cersei had sent ravens calling the banners of Westerland lords and summoned Jaime to return with what was left of their forces within the Riverlands. _He will come_. For her, he had to.

She exhaled and looked down at her son who looked lost and alone. _He isn’t alone, he has me. That’s all he needs. Me and Jaime. We can be the family we should have always been. No Robert with his drunken bouts and whoring. No Tyrells with their poisonous thorns and trying to break away my family._ “I wanted to tell you this sooner . . . but I didn’t know how to say it. You’re my son and I don’t want you upset. I know you two were close.” _Too close_. She didn’t want her son to become like Loras Tyrell. Regardless of that, she planned on a splendid funeral, one worthy of Loras’ station. Tommen loved him, as did most of the city. _That’ll show me the generous queen._ She looked into his bright emerald eyes – eyes so much like Jaime’s when he was younger. Tommen’s were large and sweet and innocent. “I’m sorry, my cub, but Ser Loras has passed on.”

“Dead?” His face went red. “M-mother is-is that true?” His voice was almost pleading.

Cersei smoothed his hair back and kissed his forehead. “Ser Loras was a heroic knight, the best in the realm, one who died valiantly in your service, my son. He’s coming back to King’s Landing where he deserves a hero’s funeral.” She couldn’t wait to see Margaery’s face when she told her. The little filly was confined to the maiden vault, guarded by Tarly men but Cersei was sure they’ll stand aside for her. “Will you be spending time with your young wife to comfort her?” He looked to burst into tears. _A lion doesn’t cry, it roars. It doesn’t beg, it demands._ “You should. You’re her husband, one who needs to be supportive in her time of need.” _Just like how Jaime failed to be in mine_. Cersei’s eyes glimpsed at the wrinkled hag of a septa and the novices beside her. Tommen briskly nodded. _Don’t you dare cry. You are a lion, a lion doesn’t cry_. Then she comforted her son, telling him that he’ll be alright and that Ser Loras wouldn’t have wanted Tommen to tear up. Her son only nodded and tried like an obedient little cub, but he didn’t have Joffrey’s strength.

It was the next morning when Cersei strode into the small chambers where her new small council waited for her. The previous council created by her uncle had been replaced by people she had personally chosen – those loyal to her and no one else.

Qyburn continued his role as Master of Whispers as well taking the position of Grand Maester. Pycelle had been useless at his role, only useful for babbling and offering useless advice whilst Varys was a traitor, and like a true spider he had retreated to a dark hole to die in. People had begun nicknaming Qyburn the ‘ _The Physician_ ,’ or ‘ _The Mad Maester_.’ Those who went to see him either came out the black cells pale as fresh snow or were never seen again. Regularly turnkeys or gaolers complained about the screams that rang throughout the lower levels of the Red Keep, but she turned a blind eye to their complaints. Qyburn had many uses, Cersei found, and he was allowed to continue he little experiments as long as he remained useful. A few times she even thought of giving him the title of lord, as a way of thanks for Ser Robert Strong who served her without question. The banished maester was indeed her most useful and faithful servant, but compared to the snivelling dolts like Ser Harys Swyft, it isn’t saying much.

Beside him sat Archwisdom Hallyne the Pyromancer of the Alchemists’ Guild. He was a pallid man, with a small whispering voice and was usually found rubbing his little hands together. He had been greatly useful to her, first in the Battle of Blackwater with creating her wildfire that was used against Stannis. The queen had ordered he create more, enough to kill a few dragons. The creature always yearned for her approval and had rushed to create what he called, “the substance.” Cersei mused about making him her hand.

Then there was Osfryd Kettleblack who continued his role as commander of the Gold Cloaks after she removed Humfrey Waters from his post. One bastard had betrayed her and she wasn’t going to risk another. Cersei had always been told that bastards were treacherous by nature and Aurane Waters had proven that. Her decision was a wise one. Ser Osfryd had been more than useful in helping clean the streets of the Sparrows. He was one of the few who hated them as much as her.

Tarly continued his role as Master of Laws, if only because he had an army both outside and within the walls of King’s Landing. For as much as people praised the Lord of Horn Hill, he was very reluctant to take charge and mostly kept quiet during the small council sessions, something Cersei was thankful for. Normally Ser Harys Swft sat beside him as Master of Coin, but the spineless chicken was off in Braavos, trying to extend their loan to the Iron Bank. He hadn’t returned and Cersei cared little. Swyft was a fool who was only good at clucking useless words back at her.

_My council, finally not being overwhelmed by the scent of roses_. It made her happy.

Qyburn was the first to speak. He pulled forth a rolled up parchment from his sleeve and opened it up. “Your Grace,” he said, flattening it out on the table. “May I say what an honour it is for you to finally arrive, we have a busy session.”

“What is that?” Cersei demanded. _I have to clean up the mess my father left me_. If he was still alive, she was sure Lord Tywin would be impressed with that she was doing. She was his true born heir. Not Jaime and certainly not the imp.

“We have received outriders from Lady Nymeria saying that she and the Dornish are close and bringing with them Princess Myrcella Baratheon.”

Cersei hated Qyburn putting Robert’s house after her daughter. She was a Lannister, a lioness of Casterly Rock. Not a filthy stag – a herd animal to be hunted. “It’s an unfortunate thing to happen to my daughter, my child, my little girl.” Attacked by Ser Gerold Dayne. Cersei wanted to drag him kicking and screaming to King’s Landing for a proper execution. She even thought about punishing all of House Dayne for what he did. Tywin Lannister did put all of House Reyne and Tarbeck to the sword during their little rebellion. Her father knew how to punish those who stepped out of line. _Maybe the Martell’s need a little punishment as well, for failing to protect my daughter_. They were working with the imp, she was sure. It was that monster who took Myrcella into that snake pit. They cut off her daughter’s ear to avenge Tyrion missing that ugly nose of his. Cersei was certain they were involved, especially with Oberyn having died defending the dwarf. “Do you know when my sweet Myrcella will be here?” While Dorne had sent a message proclaiming them loyal servants to the crown and that this Aegon was an imposter, they still desired Nymeria Sand to sit the small council. Cersei couldn’t believe that they would send a bastard to do so, but the Dornish were a queer people. After Qyburn stated they would arrive within a few hours’ time, Cersei forced a smile and told her council to prepare for their arrival.

“Next we have some unfortunate news of Lord Mace Tyrell.” Tarly took notice at that. “Or late lord, I should say. My queen, I’m afraid to say that he’s met an unfortunate end in the field of battle—”

“What . . . how?” Cersei snapped. She had been prepared to him failing. Mace Tyrell was a man whose greatest military achievement was sitting on his arse as he feasted outside the walls of a starving castle. _How could he lose to some sellswords when he had the might of the Reach behind him?_ She gritted her teeth. _It looks like even when I expected he’ll fail, he finds some way to disappoint me_. “So what now? What is this  _false_ dragon doing?” She was sure he was a pretender, he couldn’t have been the babe laid by that feeble Dornish princess. Her father wasn’t inefficient. A suckling babe couldn’t have escaped the lion of Casterly Rock. 

“He’s now marching towards us at full speed, under the command of Jon Connington. Riders from Mace’s host report that the Tyrell army has largely been devastated, but those who have withdrawn from the battle have done so in good order and that—”

“Connington?” Tarly interrupted, his voice was like a whip, quick and direct. “The same Connington who failed to kill King Robert Baratheon at Stoney Sept? _Pugh_. He’s no fool, I’ll say that much. If he’s destroyed my liege’s host, it can only show how much he’s improved since his exile.”

“I thought taking Storm’s End would have proven that,” Cersei snapped, before groaning. _I’ve lost one army, but there is still another outside my walls, led a commander who isn’t a bumbling idiot_. She eyed Tarly. _Yes, that will do nicely. The Targaryens are sure to be weakened after that battle and they need to be crushed quickly. If that doesn’t work, Jaime will sort out the stragglers_.

Qyburn continued rambling after being interrupted. “Yes, he won the battle near Bronzegate but only after butchering the prisoners they captured. A few hundred of them, if the reports are true. Lords and young knights. All fought valiantly in the name of the king before being captured and butchered by sellswords and foreigners.”

_Slaughtering prisoners, oh that’s beautiful_. Cersei would let the whole world know that the Targaryen boy ordered the killing, that he was a butcher. _The world will know and stand against him, the grandson of Mad King Aerys. The butcherer of sons and fathers and brothers._ Better yet, she could say that he killed them with that dragon of his. All the young and aspiring knights huddled together as the Young Dragon stood over them beside that black demon, where the creature opened its maw and spilled forth black flames to engulf them.

Cersei Lannister grinned.

“My Lord Tarly,” she spoke out. He turned to her, Lord Randyll eyes were cold. Cersei had expected him her greatest opponent in the council but he didn’t seem to be doing much besides sprout worthless advice whenever he decided to open his mouth. “After this disastrous defeat of your liege lord, I for one believe it’s best to destroy this Young Dragon in the field.” Tarly looked at her, his eyes calculating, likely considering his chances of victory. “You are regarded as the finest commander in Westeros, masterfully crushing my late husband in the field during his rebellion and aiding my sons against the Starks and Stannis.”

“Your Grace, surely it’ll be better if I have my army man the walls when they inevitably arrive. The walls will give us the defensive advantage.”

Qyburn was quick to shake his head. “No my lord, I must object. With this victory, more lords will be quick to side with this wannabe conqueror. The city is large, chaotic and crowded. If Aegon Targaryen isn’t stopped quickly, we’ll face even more trouble. When Princess Daenerys arrives with the other ten thousand, well . . .”

“That may not be the best, my lord. I’m sure you are aware of the food situation in the capital. I’m afraid to say that we can’t support your army and that situation will only get worse if the Targaryens aren’t dealt with _quickly_.” At least before the battle of the Blackwater, Rosby and Stokeworth had shipped food to King’s Landing. But the sellsword Bronn and the bloody ward of Rosby refused her demands for supplies, instead they hid in their keeps like the cravens they were.

Like he took the hint, the lord of Horn Hill slowly nodded. “If my queens commands, then I will obey.”

They talked further of the deteriorating situation in the city proper, the Sparrows and the food shortage. There were reports of fighting between a group of sparrows and a group of people near the merchant’s quarters. Cersei ordered more Gold Cloaks to be sent there and harsher punishments on criminals. Two Lannister soldiers had been found dead near Flea Bottom. The queen ordered the heads of those responsible and their families as well. It would serve as a warning for those who break the king’s laws.

After the council ended, Cersei felt proud of herself. She dismissed Lord Randyll Tarly to organise his army. He was leaving behind a small token force, which was too much for Cersei but he has been more than insistent. With him leaving with the flapping of green banners, Cersei was hopeful he would beat the dragons in the field and still be weakened enough to bring the Tyrells to heel for when Jaime returned.

It was during sundown when the Dornish arrived. Leading in front of a force of a force three hundred strong was the bastard of the Viper of Dorne: Nymeria Sand. Otherwise called Lady Nym, Qyburn told her. Cersei had laughed. _A bastard giving herself a title above her station. She’ll learn her place soon enough_.

Both the queen dowager and the young king stood in the courtyard before the gates of the Red Keep. She couldn’t afford to go outside, not after what had happened. Cersei still received nightmares of her ordeal: the smallfolk all staring, men with lustful eyes and cruel hands, women speaking in horrid tongues and judging her. 

The bastard of Dorne was a tall willowy woman with long black hair tied in a braid, it was pulled back to show a widow’s peak like her sire. Her clothes and cloak were of wool and silk, with the bright orange and red, the Martell sun highly visible. It was like she wasn’t a bastard. Atop a horse beside the snake was her daughter – her precious princess. The golden hair beauty people said would once look like her was no more. Myrcella was wrapped in a brown cloak with a hood coating her face in shadow. It did little to hide the crudely healed wound that ran across the side of her face.

Princess Myrcella dismounted alongside the Dornish whore and looked down at the stone ground, as if she was afraid to meet her mother’s gaze. Cersei immediately lowered herself, pulled down the hood and inspected the wound. Her cub looked ready to cry. The princess’s ear was missing and her daughter had tried to hide it by covering it with her golden curls. _I’ll kill them, I’ll kill all of them. Every last Dornishman will fear the lion_. But she couldn’t do anything, not now. The Dornish guards all looked well armoured and seasoned, while hers were half their number. She doubted even Strong – who stood beside her – could deal with that number without herself, her daughter and son being caught in the fighting.

“Your Grace,” Oberyn’s bastard went on her knees as did the rest of the Dornish party. “I apologise on behalf of my uncle for what has happened to Princess Myrcella. It was all the actions of Ser Gerold of House Dayne, to cause war between our two great houses.”

“It is true,” Myrcella mumbled meekly. Her skin was cold and deathly pale. She looked sick. “It was the doing of—” Her daughter took a pause, holding herself in her arms. “Ser Gerold Dayne was responsible. Ser Arys Oakheart died protecting me.”

_Attacked by my brother’s catspaw_. Cersei looked up at the Dornish. _They’re responsible. Tyrion planned this all along._ It was him who betrothed her precious daughter to that snake Trystane. “I hope he is brought to justice.” She forced a smile while she grimaced internally. “I’m sure it’s been a long ride from Dorne. I’m sure you and your . . . companions need rest and food.” _Ser Strong will deal with you shortly_. Cersei planned to kill the whore’s men before sending the bastard herself to Qyburn who’ll get all the information out of her. Cersei doubted Nymeria would make a good hostage, she was a bastard after all and she doubted any of the guards were nobles of Dornish houses. The Lannister guards with them could provide useful information. She eyed the Red Cloaks among their number, their skin tanned by the Dornish sun.

Cersei dreamt of sitting the Iron Throne that night, with everyone staring up at her with awe. Tommen was there with his kittens, Myrcella without her scar, and Joffrey standing proud and tall. Jaime was there also, without his golden hand or his beard and as her husband – as he should be. Her father was there also, looking proud at her – it was a strange sight. Standing beside him were her uncles and aunts. The Tyrell harlot didn’t exist and neither did Robert nor the Dornish, the Targaryens nor the Starks. People praised her, calling Queen Cersei the most beautiful woman in the world and how no one could compare. She was the Light of the West, the queen of Westeros – undisputed and ruling supreme. They adored her, with beaming smiles and joyous words. They awaited for her to stand and tell them what to do. When Cersei spoke, her voice was powerful and melodic at the same time.

She sat back down on the throne and smiled. The herald ordered the first person forward.

It was a short creature that waddled towards her. When it threw its hood back, it had Tyrion’s face. An ugly oversized thing with a missing nose and a horrid scar. With a set of black-green eyes that leered at her with unhidden lust. The dwarf laughed a crackling laugh that made her ears bleed.

But it wasn’t just him. The court that had once praised her now pointed at their queen and laughed. Cersei found herself as naked as her nameday. Her golden hair fell from her head, leaving her bald for all the world to see. The horrid sound of their laughter and taunts echoed off the walls and arched ceiling of the throne room. She tried to cover herself but to no avail. “ _Shame, shame_ ,” bells rang. “ _Queen Cunt. All hail the royal tits_ ,” cried the herald. The bells continued to ring, getting louder and louder. “ _Shame, shame_.” They taunted and laughed, pointed and cursed. “ _Whore. Harlot. Abomination. Brotherfucker_.” The bells rang, and rang until they stopped and the hall fell silent.

Then there was a crash.

The doors flew open. People went silent as a massive creature slithered in beside the imp. A massive silver dragon with purple eyes reared its spiked head. With that, the Gold Cloaks dragged her off her throne – her rightful throne and threw her to the ground like a sack of flour. Tyrion then killed her children: Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen before seating himself upon her throne as the dragon laid down submissively before his feet, letting out a puffs of black smoke from its nostrils. A jester’s crown was placed atop the dwarf’s head. The bells sang as he cocked his head to the side, like a cat eyeing a mouse.

“I killed your children,” the dwarf crackled. His filed teeth were slick with blood. Pushing himself up, the imp stepped from the steps of the throne. “And I’ll kill you.” Hairy oversized fists grasped her throat and squeezed; hands large and strong. _No_ , the queen tried to cry out, but nails dug into her neck, choking off her protests. She kicked and screamed, the hands squeezed tighter and tighter. All the while Jaime just stared, unmoving, uncaring with a face of stone. At the end, Cersei made a thin sucking sound, the same that had marked Joff’s last breath on earth. Then the world blackened around her.

She woke up crying.

It was dark and the bed cover wrapped around her neck. Cersei threw it off violently and it pooled onto the floor. Her skin was slick with sweat and her breasts were heaving. _A dream_ , she thought, _a horrid, horrid dream_. Cersei ran her hand through her short hair, feeling the bristles of what once had been a glorious golden mane. She shook her head and ordered the fair haired novice to fetch her some wine, water to clean the sweat off her face, and to find Qyburn.

The pretty and innocent looking girl returned with all three. She put the pan of warm water beside her bed, a cup of Arbor on a desk and stood to the side. Qyburn was wrapped in his white and gold robes, a warm smiling face met hers. It was like the face of a caring father. “Your Grace, may I ask why you request my presence?”

Cersei sat on the end of her bed, a linen nightdress concealing her modesty. “I need another potion from you. To help me sleep.”

“More nightmares, your grace?” His fatherly smile comforted her.

They were a regular occurrence and only seemed to be getting worse. What Qyburn gave her was similar to sweetsleep, yet tasted slightly different. “I need more of it.” It didn’t go down good, but when Cersei did have it she fell into a deep dark tunnel that blocked out her dreams. The exiled maester only bowed his head, left the chambers only to return with a slender glass vial. It looked like water and was slipped into the wine to make it go down easier. Cersei drank wholeheartedly and soon her mind went blank, where she slept in a deep and undisturbed slumber.

Dawn rose over King’s Landing, making the snow covered city glisten. It did have a beauty, she admitted . . . at a distance. The capital was a city inhabited by vermin who needed to be purged. She envisioned a new city, one built of gold and marble and polished stone. One that didn’t smell of shit and wasn’t swarming with beggars and thieves and rapists. 

The three novices dressed her in a splendid dress of crimson and gold. Around her neck they fastened a golden necklace crusted with emeralds that matched her eyes. The lioness of Casterly Rock needed to look strong, as a proper queen should. She was the queen, not the filly, not that girl who was born from the Mad King’s seed. Not the wolf girl, not the kraken and defiantly not the bearded woman. Cersei Lannister was the one true queen of Westeros.

It was in the courtyard they waited for her. Seven holy knights who had all sworn their swords to the faith. Rainbow cloaks hung from their shoulders. Crystals crested their great helms, all gleaming beside torches on the walls. The Warrior’s Sons were clad head to toe in inlaid silver armour polished like a mirror. Kite shields rested at their sides, all bearing a crystal sword shining in the darkness. One bowed his head towards her. “Your Grace, his High Holiness the High Septon is ready for your trial. Me and my brothers will see you safety through the city.”

It just reminded her of her walk of atonement, where a dozen Warrior’s Sons protected her from people getting too close. They shielded her from their hands, but not from their looks or words. Cersei swallowed, her eyes turned to her cousin Lancel. _My blood and betrayer_. She just hoped it was him, the weedy weasel, who Strong will break. Princess Myrcella remained in bed, in a deep sleep whilst Tommen was crying, begging for her to remain. She kissed the both of them on the foreheads before telling them she would return. “If his High Holiness requests, then I shall come.”

Her footsteps were slow and the ground echoed with the boots of her champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write. The amount of narcissism and entitlement of this character, Cersei is a horrible person, but a very complex one. I don’t think I can do her justice. As always, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. As always, comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	31. Daenerys VIII

Dany loved the wind blow against her face as she flew atop Meraxes.

_I’m the first person to ride on a dragon in a hundred and fifty years_ , she thought with pride, staring at the ships below. Many ships of the Targaryen fleet had black sails with the three headed dragon in blood red. Each one crewed by experienced sailors from around Essos, some going as far east as Tolos and Elyria.

Vhagar flew beside the ships, his green leathery wings thrashing against the water, scaring the sailors and soldiers before he shot upwards and leveled off. The princess wondered if Aegon had managed to ride his dragon. A few times Dany saw Balerion fly above the ocean as he grew larger, much more so then her own mount.  _Balerion Reborn_ , people were calling it.

Once upon a time, Daenerys never would have thought that dragons would come back, or that she would be riding one. She had dreamt, fantasising she was Queen Rhaenys, or Visenya or any of the princesses and queens who rode dragons. She never imagined returning to Westeros on one. Before the dragons hatched, Daenerys Targaryen always thought she would arrive by ship to King’s Landing where Aegon would be king and waiting for her atop his throne.  _Not anymore. I’m a dragon, the blood of conquerors and kings. Not a girl to hide away across an ocean whilst I wait for my husband. Westeros will fall to the dragons, the both of us_. 

The princess inhaled the salty scent of the ocean. The rough grey sea battered against the stone pillars rising from Shipbreaker Bay. It was her first sight of Westeros and in all honesty she was disappointed. Daenerys remembered Viserys’ tales from when she was young. The Seven kingdoms were supposed the most beautiful place in the world. Full of rolling hills of lush green grass, meadows full of flowers comprising of bright colours, towers of stone rising far into the clear blue sky. “Home is more beautiful than any city in Essos,” he had declared after visiting Lys with Aegon and Jon. While in their cabins or travelling, her brother would tell her of home and all the castles in the realm they had once ruled: Highgarden, Casterly Rock, the Eyrie and King’s Landing.  _Perhaps once it had been beautiful, but it is winter now. The realm is fractured under the usurpers and their wars._

While she was disappointed, she was just glad to finally arrive. Daenerys Targaryen grasped the miniature portrait around her neck and smiled a sad smile.  _I’m home mother_. She knew the late Queen Rhaella Targaryen would be proud at what they achieved.  _If only you were still around to see it_. In her heart, Dany knew both Viserys and Rhaegar would be equally proud.

Before her was a massive fortress of grey stone with thick walls standing proudly on the edge of a white cliff. The keep was the first thing she saw: a single round tower colossal in size. Dany smiled proudly when she saw the Targaryen banners flapping in the strong wind. But they weren’t the only ones, many were split in half with the Targaryen dragon and Martell sun.

As the shadow loomed across the courtyard, servants and soldiers barely got out the way of Meraxes landing in the courtyard. Without wasting a moment, the dragon princess removed the chains to her harness and jumped down from the saddle. “Good dragon,” Daenerys smiled and the silver creature nuzzled her palm in the manner of when he was a mere little hatchling who would lay around her neck, chew on her hair or tug her dress.  _They are weapons now, not pets. Breathing, flying weapons that spew fire_. Their teeth were longer and sharper, their jaws strong enough to break through bone. The scales that once had been smooth and soft had become hard and jagged. What had once been a pretty spark had turned into a torrent of flame that could burn flesh to the bone.  _You’ll never stopped growing will you, my child_. Ser Jorah told her dragons never stopped getting bigger and that Balerion the Black Dread could swallow cows whole. Meraxes released a sound almost like a purr and Daenerys giggled.

“Dany,” came a very familiar and melodious voice. She turned around as her nephew went down the steps of the keep. He was walking so fast it was almost a run. Aegon was dressed in a black tunic, with a three headed dragon before a sun sewn with crimson lace. Strapped to his belt was Blackfyre in a fine leather and wooden scabbard. Her nephew only seemed to have gotten taller, his silver-gold hair as well. There was still some streaks dark with dye, which surprised her. “It looks like one of us can finally ride one of those things. That is good . . . may I ask how?”

Daenerys was about to laugh and barely answered before he hugged her. His hands wrapped around her body encased in armour. It was in three layers: a padded black gambeson underneath silver chainmail and polished plate patterned with gold. It was designed to maximise mobility and protection from arrows as well as the elements. While Daenerys didn’t expect to fight on the ground like Aegon, she wasn’t foolish enough to be in the air without protection.

The princess returned the hug. “I missed you,” he spoke softly in her ear, his arms tightening around her.

“I missed you too.” She inhaled, taking in his scent.

After releasing each other, she looked over to see a group of people standing beneath the wide open doors to the keep. Ser Barristan was there, standing beside Ashara as he usually did, as was Duck. The others had to be the Dornish envoy Aegon wrote about. Noticing Jon wasn’t there, Dany felt a sickening feeling in her stomach. “I must say it’s wrong of you not to present me to your companions, nephew. May you introduce them?”

Before Aegon could make a reply, a short buxom woman stepped forward. She was in a dress of bright yellow and orange, adorned with the sigil of House Martell. “Princess Daenerys Targaryen, or shall I call you the dragon princess, for that is what you are right now.” She curtsied. “I am Princess Arianne Martell, first born of Prince Doran Martell and heir of Dorne. May I say it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Aegon has been . . . talkative.”

Daenerys couldn’t help but smile. Throughout her life in Essos, Aegon was her only family by blood after Viserys' passing. But in Westeros there was house Martell, her family on Aegon’s side. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Princess Arianne. I assume Storm’s End is to your liking?”  _This looks nothing like the palaces of Essos_. It looked cold and unappealing to her eyes and Dany questioned how anyone would could live there. She kissed the other princess upon both cheeks.

Princess Arianne returned the gesture. “Very much, princess Daenerys. But I have to ask about the dragon.” The Dornish women looked over at Meraxes who eyed the woman like a meal. Though her guards had had hands on their weapons, Princess Arianne looked more intrigued then scared. “No one has ridden one in over a hundred years, may I ask how you did it and what it was like? I’m sure your nephew will want to know, so he can experience riding a dragon himself.” Her lips curved slightly and Aegon flushed slightly red. Dany only laughed softly, that moment she knew her and Arianne would be good friends.

“It’s a wonderful feeling, I will admit.” The wind in her hair, looking down on everything like they were ants. It was a wonderful experience she couldn’t get enough of. “I think it is better if we spoke inside.” She glanced at her husband. “I’m guessing there is much to say.”

“There is indeed. It will be better to speak inside, in my solar?”

“Indeed.” After going back to Meraxes and speaking some soft words, she ordered servants to go and fetch a few cows for her dragons – both Meraxes and Vhagar could be very lazy and she preferred that to them hunting in Westeros. Daenerys met with the other Dornish: the bastard Elia Sand who was named after Aegon’s mother, a few knights and ladies; none of whom seemed to be of great standing beside the Dornish princess herself. After she turned to Ser Barristan and Lady Ashara, the woman who served as their septa gave her a motherly hug. The gesture only brought back memories from when she was little and Dany returned the embrace. The two knights of the Kingsguard smiled, Ser Barristan said how much he welcomed her presence, giving a formal bow whilst Ser Duck looked her over, snickered, then compared her to Queen Visenya, all she needed was the sword. After exchanging greetings, they entered the keep of Storm’s End, the ancestral home of House Baratheon – her greatest enemy. The very house who thought they won by removing the Targaryens from Westeros. But the dragons returned, greater and stronger than before.  _Dynasties rise, dynasties fall, and some are left in ashes. The dragon does not forget_. They entered Aegon’s solar. It was a well-furnished room of Myrish carpets, rich wooden panelling and hunting tapestries it seemed her nephew still had to remove. A serving girl brought up food and wine, curtsied before closing the heavy door behind her. A smile played on the Targaryen princess’s lips. “I’m guessing you want to explain what is going on in Westeros, dear nephew.” The fire was raging, for that she was thankful, she had never been so cold in her life.

It was her good-cousin who answered. “I’ve sent a raven and got a reply. My father has agreed to enter the war. Fifteen thousand spears are heading up the Boneway towards Storm’s End. Another army is heading to Highgarden by the Prince’s Pass.” The Dornish princess smirked, one that showed both pride and a sense of mischief. “Not to mention my cousins. Nymeria and Tyene are in King’s Landing. Have you heard what is going on in King’s Landing, Princess Daenerys?”

Dany shook her head. Besides some rumours, she didn’t know much. Both her nephew and cousin had a greater understanding. Aegon grinned and leaned on the wall. “There is some good news and some bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

His cocky expression flickered. “Lord Randyll Tarly has left the city with the rest of the Tyrell host. That is bad. The so-called queen married to the boy king is under his protection, having left the prison that was the Sept of Baelor and is now under his lordships protection. Cersei Lannister has won her trial of combat with a monster called Ser Robert Strong. The giant beat Ser Theodan Wells of the Warrior’s Sons, ripping the man’s head from his body. As such, she has been proven innocent of the charges of adultery, incest, regicide, deicide, oh, and murder.”

“And the good news?” Daenerys Targaryen didn’t like what her nephew spoke. She heard that Lord Randyll Tarly was among the best generals in Westeros, the only one who defeated the rebellious stag during the rebellion. One queen was locked up and the other was free, which could create some stability in King’s Landing.  _Perhaps our luck is running out_.

Aegon grinned once more. “Lord Mace Tyrell is dead. His horse got shot during the battle near Bronzegate. We routed the Tyrell army, taking many valuable prisoners,” his face wavered slightly. “One of his sons were injured during the taking of Dragonstone from Stannis Baratheon, with the others rushing to deal with the Ironborn who continue to rape and pillage the Reach. Many houses are flocking under our banner, both great and small. Other than Lord Tarly’s host, the way to King’s Landing is clear.”

Dany couldn’t help but smile. Besides a few things, she thought the campaign was going easily.  _Perhaps a bit too much so_. They didn’t mention the Vale so she assumed that it wasn’t bloodied yet whilst the North and the Riverlands she knew would devastated by war and winter. “I would love to hear about your exploits nephew.” She received his messages about what he achieved but she wanted to hear the words coming from his lips.

“There will be plenty of time for that,” Princess Arianne spoke out. “But I’m sure you’re wishing to know of the capital.” Dany nodded. “Oh there is so much to talk about. The Tyrell and Lannister whore are fighting over the boy king like two bitches over a bone. If what they’re saying is correct, the Lannister’s are fighting against Tyrell’s who in turn are fighting against the very faith itself. Fires are burning and my cousins will be adding more fuel to the flames. Chaos will reign,” Arianne said confidently, swirling her cup.

_Then we come in with promises of peace and food_. Daenerys wanted to see King’s Landing, the home her ancestors built. “What about the faith? I heard they were militarised like the days before King Maegor. If they are, they could very well see us as a threat and fight against us.” Incest was against the faith, she knew. She wondered where she and Aegon would stand in their eyes. Avunculate marriages weren’t a rare occurrence.

The Martell prince smirked dangerously. “My dearest dragon, Tyene is like the maiden herself, all sweet and innocent—as far as looks are concerned. She has entered the city as a septa and is close to the High Sparrow himself. His High Holiness is among the most powerful players within the walls and his strength is growing by the day, with an army that number’s tens of thousands strong which can be called upon from all around Westeros. Lion, stag or dragon, the High Septon will have to choose. A bastard child born of incest, a man who worships a red demon and wants to crush the Seven, or the rightful king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, raised in the faith.”

_A double edged sword._ While it could help her and Aegon, it could very well cut them in the future. Dany wondered how it would affect her. She was born of incest between brother and sister, and wondered if the High Septon would go against her because of that. “Let’s say he helps us, what then? He could still prove a threat. The faith militant answer to him and him personally, undermining the king’s authority.”  _We don’t rule them, they follow the avatar to the gods_.

“Maegor’s laws disbanded the Faith Militant,” Aegon explained even though she knew just as well as him, if not better. “It was Jaehaerys the Conciliator who ended the uprisings in return for promises and compromises. It will do well for us to see if we can convince the High Sparrow to reinstate the laws when we are crowned and our hold on Westeros is secure. It’ll be easy. As soon as King’s Landing falls, the rest of Westeros will fall into line.”

He sounded confident, but Dany wasn’t. She heard about the faith militarising across the Narrow Sea, but she still had to learn more to properly access the situation. She was to be queen and Daenerys knew that it would be foolish to make rash decisions. “Then let’s hope.” They discussed further more about the condition of the continent. There was old news in the Vale about a bastard set to marry the heir, while in the north they spoke about Stannis. The Baratheon would likely freeze before becoming a threat. Death by ice or fire, she didn’t care, as long as he died and his entire house followed him.  

When the talks ended, Princess Arianne Martell left the solar and the door closed behind her. Dany turned to her husband. Her smile died and her voice became hard. “I didn’t want to bring it up, but where is Lord Griff, the man who raised us?” She doubted he would go out of his own volition. The old lord was loyal to the both of them, her nephew especially because he was the rightful king. But he was protective of her as well, calling her little princess. Aegon would have told her immediately if he had died.

Aegon sighed and refilled his cup. “Jon . . . he’s leading the company to capture the rest of the castles up north.”

She didn’t like the tone he was using. “You commanded him to leave?” Jon would never leave Aegon, never.  _He knows the Stormlands and its lords yet you send him up with half of our army without waiting for reinforcements from me or the Dornish._

“Aye. I did.” When Daenerys demanded why, he only replied with, “Because it was the right cause of action. You didn’t know what he did after the battle. More than a few hundred prisoners he killed, all highborn. Knights and lords. He was breaking Westerosi traditions, rules of chivalry.”

Daenerys was unfazed, much to Aegon's surprise. “War is war. I may be a young girl, but I’m no fool. I know war is unclean.”  _They are Tyrells, they joined with the usurpers instead of joining us._  Those who refused to bend the knee deserved fire. “More people will die. Smallfolk and highborn. Regardless of what side and what we do. The least we can do is end this war quickly.”  _Like treating a wound_.

“I know,” he sighed like a child, “but . . . this?”

“Aegon,” Dany placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know that being king won’t be easy, we were both raised with that. Kingship and queenship is a duty. As such we have to make difficult decisions regardless whether you consider it was right, I’m sure Jon had a good reason for it.” Her nephew only nodded weakly. One way or another, Aegon could usually be brought to her way of thinking. “Change of subject. The fleet is still on the way and we’ll see the first shipments of food from Magister Illyrio.” It was said that a king who failed feed his people was no true king, so they both made sure that food was coming to the war-torn continent. While in Essos, she had visited Illyrio, as well as the Archon of Tyrosh and the magisters of Lys and Myr.  _Food will flow into Westeros, for a price_.

“Food for the smallfolk?” She nodded, a smile forming. “Good. The rain has destroyed much of the harvest . . . and the Golden Company has  _appropriated_  much of the rest. The people are starving.”

While Aegon demanded they didn’t kill anyone without just cause, and outright refused his forces to commit rape on the population, he encouraged the men to loot from any highborn who refused to bend the knee.  _Hit them where it hurts_ , he had said. It was one of his ways to deal with the high prices the sellsword companies demanded.

_Food to the people, shipped in from Essos_. “And they will get it,” Daenerys replied before spinning around. “Mind if you help me remove this armour.”  _Perhaps I should get myself a squire_. Her nephew did so, putting the vambraces, pauldrons, greaves as well as the chest piece to the side.  _To think the armourer wanted to put nipples on it. Useless_. She did like it, and she had a mind to thank Lyarra for her comments. It made her look like a conqueror. When the last piece came off, Dany stretched her limbs, relieved the weight had gone.

Her nephew smirked and looked down at her body. It was hidden underneath a gambeson and thick trousers. “Perhaps I should help you remove that as well?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Dany laughed. “Perhaps latter nephew. For now, I’m going to visit our magical dwarf.” Aegon’s face darkened and he shook his head. Neither of them liked Tyrion Lannister but he had his uses. “I’m assuming he’s still locked away?” He was too valuable to let roam free in case he got away.

“Aye. I wish you didn’t aunt. But if you must, Duck will escort you.” With a clap of his hands, the door opened and the large man with an orange beard stepped forward. He was in the white mail of the kingsguard, with a bleached white cloak draped from his shoulders. While Dany never expected Aegon to make him a Kingsguard, she was happy with it. She knew and trusted her knight of Duckfield.

Ser Duck escorted her to the Lannister who was being retained in one of the rooms at the top of the tower. Two guards of the Golden Company stood outside the bolted door. They bowed her heads and allowed her inside. The room was well furnished for a prisoner, a bed stuffed with goose feathers, myrish carpets and well stocked with wine and food. It was a cell, but furnished for one of high birth.

“Tyrion of House Lannister,” she said formally as Ser Duck stood to the side. The knight had a hand on the handle of his sword.  _Kingslayer, kinslayer and most despised man in the realm_. Few would look to the Targaryens as proper rulers if they showed the dwarf to the world.  _Perhaps we could execute him after he’s been useful . . ._  he was a Lannister and a spawn of Tywin.

The dwarf looked up from the desk covered with books and scrolls from Haldon. While he couldn’t leave the chamber, he had all the books and scrolls to amuse himself with. If needed he would help them plan. “Greetings, Your Grace,” he said before forcing himself up. “What have I done to accept this honour?”

“Not what you’ve done, it’s what you will do.” She glanced at the stained glass window and thought how much she would prefer being outside, preferably on Meraxes. “You will tell me on how to win the crown. I assume you’ve been reading enough on which houses will join our cause _.” Take the dwarf’s words with a pinch of salt_ , Jon Connington had once said,  _while acting as a friend he’ll lure you into a trap_. In no way did Daenerys Targaryen doubt those words. Tyrion was a Lannister and a dwarf, he was not to be trusted.

“I swear there was dragons outside and it seems you’re a rider.”

“That is true,” she kept her voice flat. “But that is not what I want to talk about.” Dragons would be useful but they could be shot down. They were young and untrained. “House Targaryen needs more allies and you’re going to tell me who they are.”

“Fine then, my princess,” Tyrion showed a mocking smile which stretched the horrid scar across his face. He was so ugly. “Please, Your Grace, it feels wrong to sit whilst you stand. Please, take a seat. We have much to talk about.” Daenerys did so, her posture was tight. “From the houses that are already joining us, I can see you having a much greater army . . . and the crushing of Mace Tyrell—I would have loved to see the oaf’s face. Proud knights fighting against sellswords, oh what a sight to see.” He paused when the princess stared coldly at him and continued. “That victory has already made numerous houses desire to join you. House Targaryen does have ancestral allies from its history. North of the Crownlands at Cracklaw Point for starters. They have Targaryen sympathies as well as the houses Celtigar, Sunglass and of course Velaryon. A shame those three are all away to join Stannis Baratheon in the north. Maybe there are some houses on Massey's Hook. While in the Stormlands, the houses go to whoever they believe is strongest, who at the moment is you. But expect them to turn if the battle goes against you, as Lord Stannis found out.”

The Crownlands were an important target but Dany knew that they would be diminished. With Stannis leading the Stormlands north, they too would have few men at their disposal. “What about other houses? The Reach for instance?”  _Weaken the power of Highgarden and add to our own_.

Tyrion Lannister showed a cunning little smile. Daenerys didn’t like it. “Lord Tarly may be willing to switch sides. He is a man who is among the greatest generals of Westeros. A proud lord, shrewd and one who prizes martial ability and courage. Two things your beloved husband showed when he crushed Mace Tyrell in the field. A lord he quite despised for taking away the credit for  _his_  victories and spoils of war, as well as a little plot of land called Brightwater Keep.” He gulped down his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “An important man, not just because he leads perhaps twenty thousand swords made up of various houses, many of whom seem to have a  _distrust_  for the Lannisters.” Dany couldn’t help but smirk at the possibility of that. “But oh, there’s more. Lord Tarly has wedded his son to one of the daughters of Lord Mooton – Eleanor – who’s also his heir. A craven to be sure, but a craven who controls Maidenpool, one of the most prosperous towns in the Riverlands. A house that does have Targaryen sympathies, with Lord William’s bother Myles having been one of Prince Rhaegar’s squires and friend. One who died at Stoney Sept.” Tyrion looked up from his scroll. “So Lord Tarly has ensconced himself with a key Riverlands family who has personal ties of loyalty to House Targaryen.”

_Then let’s hope it works as the dwarf says_. “Good. But there should be others. Other houses of the Reach.”  _One won’t be enough, we need to strip the roses of their thorns_.

“A few. House Hightower may or may not decide to join with or go against you. The most powerful vassal house in the Reach, largely unbloodied in the war so far. But seeing as how the Ironborn are raiding the west coast, I doubt they will join with you when they have their own problems. Even though they’ve married into House Tyrell, with the late Lord Mace and Alerie Hightower being the mother of their children; House Hightower hasn’t yet joined them. While they’re unlikely to support you, just pray they don’t go against you.” Lannister finished his drink and poured himself another. Dany declined the offer for herself, she needed to keep a clear head. “Well, there is also possibly Lord Mathis Rowan. He’s a respected lord who may be persuaded to switch sides, for some compensation. Lands and honours are the common prize, but he may want something else, something more. He comes from the lines of Garlen Greenhand, giving him a much clearer claim over the Reach then some upstarted stewards. But at the same time, many houses do. Garlen Greenhand was quite a fertile man, in more ways than one. While Lord Mathis was given a small reward, I doubt it would suffice, especially as he was waiting outside this castle whilst everyone else was plundering Westeros for riches and prestige.”

Daenerys frowned. “Lord Mathis wont side with us. Aegon attacked him outside Storm’s End, disguised as the Golden Company serving under Stannis. His army had been crushed and he was taken prisoner.”

“As is the standard practise in war,” Lannister replied as he pushed the scroll to the side and flattened another. “Many have sided with those who captured them. In the Blackwater many sided initially with Lord Stannis before siding with my nephew, many still do. Although the nephew just happened to change. As can Lord Rowan. Another man who has been slighted by the fat rose. He was loyal to the Targaryens, loyal to your father and despised my father for what he did to the prince and princess.”

She noticed Ser Duck almost take a step forward, if to protect his liege’s honour. Dany stopped him. “Aegon never died.”  _They’ll doubt him until the day he dies and long after that_. It both saddened and infuriated her.  

“That much is true.” Tyrion took another drink. “Aegon never died. Whilst your husband lives, many will believe him to be an imposter.” She stiffened at those words. The dwarf glanced at her with those mismatching eyes of his. Black and green, it only highlighted his untrustworthiness. “May I ask you something, Your Grace?”

“What is it?” Daenerys folded her arms. “I’m guessing you want to ask about Casterly Rock, or your nephew, the boy king?”  _You wanted to force Dorne into a war that would have killed your niece, why care about the boy?_

“Aye. Both of them would be good. Like I said to your close husband. I want both my nephew and niece alive. They are good children. If they are both spared from your revenge, and are legitimised as Lannisters, I swear to you my undying loyalty. They are good children and don’t deserve what you crave.”

“They are the usurpers offspring,” Daenerys growled.  _Or at least his wife’s_. “If you think we will allow them to pose a threat to us and our children, you are greatly mistaken Lannister.”  _I’ll burn half of Westeros if it means protecting Rhaenys_.

“I may be greatly mistaken, but I doubt neither of you dragons have it in you to kill children.” He noticed she startled. “After what happened to your precious niece, I’d wager you wont, even if it's needed. So I offer you both a chance. Let them be Lannister’s and not Waters and I will support you fully, to the best of my abilities and they will abandon any claim they have.”

“Better said than done.” But the dwarf was right. When she found out the age, Daenerys didn’t want to kill Tommen, even if he was the usurpers spawn. “But what’s to stop you from betraying us and putting the crown on their heads? Various rumours are spreading about you. A kingmaker who killed his handsome, strong willed nephew because he refused to let you be his regent.” Illyrio had told her of the Braavosi play when she visited her daughter. Tyrion Lannister was among the most hated people in Westeros, undermining the credibility of whatever side he joined.

“The demon monkey of Casterly Rock does have a few stories, I’m afraid, and not all of them are good.” He showed an expression of false innocence. “A shame that only a few of them are right. While I did want to be regent whilst serving as hand of the king, it was only too limit the power of my nephew who would have been worse than your father.” She looked at him unfazed, a queen wasn’t meant to show emotion, especially not before those of dubious loyalty. “A Lannister holds no claim, regardless. Tommen isn’t a Baratheon who got their claim from your family. You are free to destroy House Baratheon if you desire, all power to you Targaryen. But just leave my nephew and niece out of it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Dany replied flatly before standing up.  _Think doesn’t mean will_. “If me and my  _nephew_  see your request within reason, it will be considered a possible path. Your nephew can be kept at court as a ward of the crown, and your niece can be kept as a handmaiden.”  _Both under watch, where they can’t be a threat_. Otherwise, Dany was sure to send the boy to the Night’s Watch and the girl to the silent sisters.

“As prisoners?”

“There is much honour to serve the royal family, especially those who are natural born.” The Targaryen’s had to look merciful in the eyes of the lords and smallfolk; but any house who rebutted their mercy would quickly learn the words fire and blood. “A few more things.” Tyrion Lannister stared and she was wrong to say it didn’t make her uncomfortable. “You will annul your marriage with Sansa Stark, if it is true you didn’t consummate the marriage. Your nephew will also annul his marriage with the Tyrell girl.” The last thing she wanted was for the Lannister’s to have powerful allies. “You will marry a family in the Westerlands to boast support there. Understand?” The dwarf agreed. “Then there is a little thing about reparations.” He grimaced, she saw. “We will be placing you as lord Paramount, but we need something for our troubles, especially with all the war. You have two options. Either you give us a tribute of gold each year until the thrones debts have been repaid, or give us a number of mines like Castamere. Which will be mined and thus be used for the crown.” She placed a finger to her lips. “What is it you Lannister’s say?”

“A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion Lannister didn’t sound happy.

“That, and you have plenty of debts to pay. Farewell Lannister. Let’s hope what you say is true.” She swiftly left the chambers and the door was barred behind her. As she walked down the circling steps, she turned to her guard. “What do you think, Ser Duck. Do you think I can trust the dwarf?”  _He has his uses and a sharp enough tongue. But is he loyal?_  He was a Lannister and she knew they were all inherently untrustworthy.

“I cannot say, princess,” her knight of Ducks replied. “I know how to swing a sword and how to forge and repair weapons and armour, but people are not like crafting. It isn’t straightforward and they can snap or twist or break.”

“They can indeed.”  _Expect betrayal both during war and during peace._  “At least we have something no other houses do, dragons.” She proceeded to another chamber which was under guard by a sellsword. “Open the door.” The guard did so without delay.

Inside the chamber sat Lord Mathis Rowan on the side of his bed. He was a lord, so the furnishing of the room were worthy of his station, if not as extravagant as Lord Tyrion’s. He glanced up, a stumble of a beard forming on his face. For a brief moment the lord of Goldengrove just stared before getting to his feet and bowed. “Princess Daenerys Targaryen,” his tone wasn’t unkind. “I’ve heard stories of you—about Dragonstone, the storm and your exile to Essos.”

“I’ve returned to seek what is mine and my families,” she showed a slight smile. “Please take a seat, my lord. I’ve heard much about you as well. You were loyal to my father during the usurpers rebellion, is that correct?”

“Aye, I swore a vow to my liege lord.”

“And your king.” She rose an eyebrow before taking a seat. “Wish for any wine, food? I can order a servant to get you what you wish.” The lord politely declined, but Dany asked for some Arbor as well as bread, cheese and grapes. “We shouldn’t talk on an empty stomach, and we have much to talk about.” Mathis lowered his head in a polite bow. “My nephew, you know him? I assume he came to visit.”

“The prince.” Lord Rowan weakly bobbed his head. “Attacked my army outside the gates of Storm’s End, carrying the flaming heart banner of Stannis Baratheon. The deceit got them entrance to this castle, I’d wager. Cunning, I will admit. But I will state that the prince himself has not visited me. But his Lord Hand has.”  

“What was that about?” Daenerys asked, making herself look naïve and curious. She had a clue, Lord Griff would have likely wanted get Lord Mathis Rowan on their side.

“He tried to make me turn my banners against my liege lord. It is dishonourable to go against the lord I swore fealty to.”

“What about your king? Aegon is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. I know you are disgusted by what the Lannisters did, as the Baratheons.” His reaction was noticeable. “I know you are a respected lord, honourable and a notable commander, one who many claim would make a worthy addition to the small council.” It was said he would be a decent hand, but that place was reserved for Jon Connington.  _Small council advisor would be a good enough position for you, as well as some land. One such as yourself will make a worthy addition for our army_.

Before he could say anything, the servant came up with plates of food and wine. While Lord Mathis didn’t request it initially, he did thank the girl for what was offered and took some. “Lord Mace is dead from what I heard . . . his son is now the Lord Paramount of the Reach by inheritance.”

“Tis true. The Reach is threatened in the west by the Ironborn. Willas and Garlen Tyrell are there, not here.” She smiled. “If you so wish, my lord, I believe we can discuss the matter further?”

As they ate cheese and bread, and sipped on Dornish red, they came to a compromise. One that Daenerys was very happy with.

It was sunset when Daenerys Targaryen feasted on the foods and wines of Westeros in the great hall with her husband, Arianne Martell, the nobles of Dorne and her bastard cousin. Normally it would be considered obscene for a bastard to eat on the same table as a royal, but Elia Sand was a cousin to Aegon and the name made Aegon reminisce about his mother, so he allowed her sit close to him. The only lord who voiced his objection quickly regretted it.

It wasn’t an impressive feast (not compared to Illyrio's). There was three courses, and a minstrel entertained them with a song about Aegon’s Conquest called “ _Dawn of the Dragons_ ,” which seemed fitting. For starters they had a thick creamy soup sprinkled with bits of barley and venison. Afterwards there were the remains of a boar roasted in honey and the sprinkled with Dornish spices. It was much spicier then any food she had in Essos, so Dany ate sparingly. Alongside that were crabs and trout and eels, warm bread fresh from the ovens, and the finest wine in the castle.

“So tell me, princess Arianna,” Dany said softly, “I heard you are married, but I don’t remember you telling me to whom?”

The woman looked up from her meal. “Ser Cletus Yronwood,” the Dornish princess answered, she didn’t sound interested in the subject. “My father’s decision. There was bad blood between our houses thanks to my uncle and House Yronwood is the second most powerful house in Dorne. My brother was sent to ward there and I was to marry Ser Cletus. But what about you, princess—”

“Daenerys. We are family. You can simply call me that. I trust I can simply call you Arianne?”

The Martell showed a soft smile and lowered her head in understanding. “Of course. It’s a pleasure, Daenerys.”

They spoke of Dorne, Prince Doran and Oberyn who tragically died trying to get a confession out of the Mountain. Daenerys was saddened by that.  _If only he knew that his nephew was alive_. Ariane said he was close to Princess Elia, almost inseparable.  _Aegon would want to know more about her_. She turned to her husband who was eagerly talking with Elia Sand, striking up a conversation about Dorne and riding. Elia called herself Lady Lance and said how she could unhorse any man in Dorne. Aegon had never jousted before and Daenerys had no illusion of her nephew beating Elia.

The crown princess of Dorne continued, “I want to ask what it was like in Essos, I heard your brother died. Viserys, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dany looked down at her plate for a brief moment.  _If only he was here_. She knew that her brother would have enjoyed it. “He did.”

“I met him once, when I was little. I visited the Red Keep with my parents to see my aunt and Rhaenys—”

“Rhaeny? You knew her?” Aegon blurted out, his mouth half full of wine.

He was quick to dab his mouth with a cloth. Daenerys rolled her eyes, Ashara covered a giggle with her hand and Elia didn’t refrain from laughing loudly. “Only saw her once,” his cousin replied, solemnly, “I was so young then. I held her. If I can remember correctly, her eyes looked purple. Otherwise Rhaenys looked like a Martell.”

Aegon looked sad. “I was a babe when I was taken away, I can’t remember anything before that point.” He then frowned, his entire face reddening. “She should be here now, sitting at this table. Mother too. If the spider could have gotten me out, he could have gotten them both out.”

_Aegon . . ._  Daenerys reached out underneath the table and took his hand in hers. His face softened. Daenerys only knew Rhaenys from what Griff and Lemore told her. Olive skin, purple eyes, with black hair. She had a cat called Balerion, and Ashara said the little princess would climb into Elia’s bed and press against her. Princess Elia Martell would smile, kiss her child on the cheek and read her stories. Rhaegar occasionally played his harp to her, but he was rarely around.  _My brother, the man who preferred his books and scrolls to his wife and daughter and son. The man who crowned someone else as his queen of love and beauty before running off with her._  When she was little, Daenerys Targaryen couldn’t understand it, but now she was a mother with her own Rhaenys, Dany could only feel anger at Rhaegar’s actions.

The Martell princess turned to him. “Why didn’t he?”

Aegon sighed, leaned back in his chair and gritted his teeth. It was Lady Ashara Dayne who answered. Since Princess Arianne Martell and her party arrived, she had been telling them of both Targaryens and Essos. “Because the spider didn’t believe the little princess would be considered a threat, or Elia. Aegon was in danger because he was a prince, a princess would mean little in the eyes of those north of Dorne.” She sighed and looked down. Her violet eyes were sad. “It was a foolish— _no_ , stupid idea. Elia was my friend, my best friend. We had been together since we were little. Playing in the Water Gardens. We were like sisters—”

It made Daenerys feel down. They were told Princess Elia was lively with a sense of humour, always around friends and close confidants, always tried to make everyone laugh and was said to put a smile on the faces of the saddest people. It only brought back memories of her own mother. Both she and Aegon lost both their parents during Roberts Rebellion. Daenerys felt no grief over King Aerys, but Queen Rhaella Targaryen died bringing her into the world. Ser Barristan told her much about the Queen: always mindful of her duty, a lover of song and dance, poetry and books, but grew quieter and increasingly sad after her many children dying and her husband’s growing madness.  _If only she was here, if they both were_. Looking at Oberyn’s natural born daughter and Arianne, Daenerys dreamed they’ll be part of the family she always wanted.

“I wish not to talk further of this subject,” Aegon interrupted. He was staring at his half eaten plate. “There is only so much of my father I’m willing to take, and my mother and sister is too saddening a story.” He looked up. “This dinner should be uplifting. We won a major victory, Dorne is standing alongside us. My aunt is the first dragon rider in over a hundred years and the Iron Throne is ripe for conquest.” He lifted a cup. “To Aunt Dany.” He put on a smile, though it seemed slightly forced. “To her and her dragons. To my cousin Arianne, her father and cousins. I wish Princess Arianne a happy and fruitful marriage. Lady Lance can continue to ride and knock men from their horses, and to the other Sand Snakes I wish to meet. Let the Houses Targaryen and Martell prosper like it has before.” They then all took a sip.

Arianne Martell turned to Daenerys. Her voice was soft. “I heard you had a child, your own little Rhaenys.”

Princess Daenerys could only smile at the memory. She had flown to Illyrio’s manse before heading off to Westeros. Rhaenys had grown, with silver-gold hair and her eyes had turned from blue to purple. So much like Aegon’s, she had thought before sitting child on her lap and sang her ‘ _The Song of the Seven’_  just like how Septa Lemore taught her and Aegon on the Rhoyne. “Tis true,” Dany said. “Named her after my niece. I wish she was here, but she’s safe in Essos. Rhaenys will come to Westeros when the throne is ours.”

Aegon was watching their conversation, his eyes not leaving her. “I wish to see her. Perhaps after I mount a dragon of my own, I can.” His lips curved. “We could fly to Pentos together.”

“And surprise Uncle Illyrio,” she couldn’t help but laugh. “That’ll be amusing. I flew over there once and you had to see his face. Oh, I was laughing for so long.” She sounded like a little girl but Dany didn’t care. It made Aegon smile. “Just imagine when we’re both there. Me on Meraxes and you on Balerion—how is Balerion?”

“Good,” his response was slow. “Hunts and flies much of the time. I lay out food for him and he always comes to Storm’s End at sunrise before flying off again.” He then grimaced. “There are some disturbing reports coming in . . . but I’m sure you’ll help me with that. Dragons aren’t like dogs, they have minds of their own; the minds of predators with nothing to fear.”

Daenerys nodded in understanding. She faced the same problem in the Disputed Lands, the least she could do was make them too content to travel far. “It will take a while, but I’m sure you can do it nephew.” She grinned. “You are the descendent of Aegon the Conqueror after all.”  _We both are and soon Westeros will kneel_.

It was late when Daenerys entered the lord’s bedchambers. Aegon was crouched beside the fire in an attempt to light it. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “A worthy feast if I say so. I'll admit that I didn’t see you enough today. I wanted to spend more time with you.”

The princess watched him work for a brief moment before beginning to strip out her clothing and strode over to a silver bowl where she began to clean her face. “You’ll have plenty of time for that. I was busy doing as a queen should.”  _Getting allies. Something it seemed you failed to do_.

“You’re not a queen, not yet anyway.”

Daenerys used a soft rag of linen to rub her face and her neck. The water was tepid, but not cold enough to dissuade her. “Nothing wrong by starting early, dearest husband. I was just getting some allies for our cause. We can never have too many.”  _The more who join us, the weaker the boy king gets_. “Many of the prisoners you took have decided to go under the dragon’s banner.” Some more reluctant than most.

“Lords?”

“And knights.” Dany smiled at him as he finally got the fire started. “Of course they wanted something for their efforts. Apparently switching sides is quite taxing.” The Stormlands were free of Baratheon control and House Connington will take their place as Lord Paramounts when the war was over. Those who refused to bend the knee would lose lands and titles which in turn will be given to those who supported House Targaryen. They had plans to split the Kingdoms, such as the Riverlands and Stormlands, and merge them into a greater Crownlands to be ruled directly by the crown.  _There'll be no shortage of lordships_.

“Always something they want.” His beautiful eyes stared at her, and crouching beside the fire, his hair seemed to glow ethereally.

“It is rude to watch.” Didn’t mean she didn’t like it.

“But you’re my lady wife,” he whined in a purposely childish manner.

Daenerys glanced at her smirking nephew and rolled her eyes. “Can you please stop that?”

“Stop what?” Aegon asked, his voice all innocent as he went to a small box and took out some candied ginger, his favourite treat. While she was indifferent, Aegon couldn’t have enough when he was younger. One time Illyrio brought them a box of the stuff, and a twelve year old Aegon consumed almost it all within a single night. Afterwards he spent the following morning sick over the side of the boat. Jon had been furious.

She left him to his treats as she dried herself with a soft towel. “I must say that I’ll be jealous if you don’t offer me some at least.”

He eyed her with an encroaching suspicious look. He likely still remembered that one time when she accidently dropped a parcel of them in the Rhoyne, he refused to speak to her for a week afterwards. “Do you want some?”

Daenerys shook her head. “If I wanted some, I would have asked.” She much preferred honey-fingers, the ones they made in Tyrosh.

“Good, because I wasn't going to give you any,” his tone became more playful. He showed that childish smile again. Sometimes it was infuriating, sometimes it was adorable.

Dressing herself in a myrish nightdress of cream silk, she said, “Real mature nephew.”

“I know,” he grinned. “The maidens will fall over themselves to get to me.”

“They’ll be falling over themselves to get  _away_ , you mean.” She tightened it and looked over her shoulder, showing the same expression as him.

When she turned away from him, Dany felt Aegon’s hands wrap around her waist, holding her tightly as his warm breath blew against her ear. “Then I surely hope you’re not one of them, dearest wife of mine. Because I’ll be greatly hurt if that’s the case.” Daenerys shuddered as his hands explored her body. His fingers were rough as could be expected of a trained knight, but they were gentle, each caress sent shivers down her spine. Soft sounds escaped her mouth as he kissed her neck. Dany flicked her pale hair away to give him better access, Aegon was more than eager to take advantage and planted a trail of tender kisses on her flesh. Pulling apart her garbs, he whispered, “You’re so beautiful. My beautiful silver dragon.”

When his hold were loose, Daenerys pulled away. Her mind was hazy and a warmth crept through her chest and into her belly. “Don’t play with me, Aegon. It’s been so long.” She missed his touch, the feel of his flesh against hers, she missed the sounds of their lovemaking. “I want you.”

Her nephew smiled, warm and conforming. Aegon gently cupped her cheek before pressing his lips against hers. His kisses were gentle and sweet. But Daenerys Targaryen was bored of gentle. She wanted passion after being away for so long. She wanted her husband to take her as was his right. To make her scream in their passion.

As their tongues caressed each other, Daenerys’ kisses growing harder and more eager, almost desperate. Any restraint they both had quickly became undone. Eager hands gripped each other’s clothing as they removed the fabric separating them. The occasional ripping sounds were heard, neither cared and it just heightened her lust.

As he tried to pull away, Dany gripped his lower lips with her teeth, holding them in a vice. She didn’t care he let out a frustrated sound, she just enjoyed the closeness of him and their hands exploring the curves of each other’s bodies. Yet no matter how hard she held on, Aegon managed to get out her hold. His eyes had only darkened in his arousal.  _He is mine and only mine_. She smiled at the thought and the sight of her husband before her. Aegon was tall and handsome. While willowy, his body was toned with muscle. His skin was blemished by scars and bruises from battle and before. Some looked minor, others looked painful and he had winced when she brushed them. She leaned up to his ears, Aegon shuddered at her warm breath. “Undress and lay on the bed.  _Now_. A dragon commands it.”

Her hands grasped his trousers in an attempt to drag them off him whilst Aegon let out a muffled laugh. “I love it when you’re bossy.” Before it was released, he lunged forward with another hungry kiss. Daenerys yelped in surprise before wrapping her arms around his neck as Aegon ungracefully removed his trousers, throwing them to the side.

_Do it, do it now_. Like he had heard her thoughts, her husband picked her up. Dany clung to him, slender arms tightened around his neck as her legs wrapped around his waist. His manhood pressed against her wet entrance, making her shudder in anticipation. Their lips captured each other again, tongues fighting for supremacy. It was a contrast to their usually slow lovemaking.

With an undignified shriek, she was thrown onto the bed. Her husband looked down, admiring her naked form as she sunk into the feather bed.  _Don’t you dare linger_. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Are you waiting for the wall to fall, or have you just forgotten how to use your cock?”

He chuckled, before leaning down to kiss her hard on her full lips. Pulling away for a moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes before her nephew leaned down and began to bite and suck at her neck until she squealed, then he slid downwards between her petite breasts. He kissed and sucked on her nipples as Dany moaned and writhed in pleasure. He looked up with a cocky smirk and went further down between her legs, prying them open before looking up once again with a predatory look on his face. Daenerys’ heart leapt in her throat as she felt Aegon’s breath against her sensitive skin. She bit her lip as her hand settled on his head, pressuring him forward as her hips rose to meet him. He did so with agonising slowness. Any thoughts escaped her mind when he pressed an open mouth kiss between her legs, his tongue delved deep inside her. She wrapped her legs around his neck and held him in place, Aegon only went in deeper and added his fingers. It only made her wither atop the bed-sheets which soon became slick underneath her. "Deeper,  _deeper_. Oh,  _please_  . . ." Her voice was low and weak, with moans breaking between words, coming from low in her throat. Daenerys Targaryen was panting when he finally stopped and climbed back up, licking his lips and wiping her juices from her face. He looked victorious, like he had tamed a dragon. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, even though her breathing was ragged and her cheeks were bright red.

“Was that to your liking, my dear,” Aegon asked with a smug tone of voice. He couldn’t look more pleased with himself. Dany only bit her lip before he kissed her again, hard, claiming her mouth with his own. Daenerys tasted her own arousal on his lips as he purged his tongue deep inside her once more. His cock pressed against her sensitive slit, after guiding him, it slamming inside her. Her jaw dropped and she let out a cry, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

Aegon fell on top of her after that, moaning her name as he fucked her into the mattress like he had never done before. Daenerys cried as she clung to him. Legs wrapped tightly around his waist, slender fingers running through his silvery hair as she angled her body to maximise the pleasure of each stroke. “ _More Aegon_ ,” Daenerys moaned in his ear. “ _More_.” The words were repeated in his ear until her entire body felt weak. The least she could do was keep hold as pleasure washed over her. She screamed, clinging tightly to him. Nails raked into his back, urging him forward. Her husband only responded with deeper thrusts that caused Daenerys to moan all the louder.

It didn’t take long for her nephew to reach his own climax. With the deepest thrust, he spent his seed deep inside of her. Aegon had improved since their first during the wedding. He had always acted cautious like he might hurt her: repeatedly apologising and acted slow, always making sure she was comfortable. It had been sweet. But this . . . it was fabulous.

She didn’t want him to pull out, loving the feeling of him still inside her, filling her depths. After weeks of waking up alone and unsated, Dany didn’t want it to end. He kissed her, this time gently and she cupped both his cheeks. But to her disappointment Aegon pulled away from their sweaty tangle of limbs and threw his head against the pillow. His wife only pouted before joining him, resting her head on his chest as he softly panted with exhaustion. Like on impulse, his arms wrapped around her in a loving embrace. She accepted the gesture and nuzzled his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart and released a light humming sound in her contentment. Her loins ached from their urgency, but it was a pleasant ache.

Dany turned to him. His skin was rosy and covered with a light sheen. “I want to talk. I missed you Aegon, I missed your voice after so long.” She idly played with a lock of his hair, twirling it around her fingers. It was so soft.

“Of course.” He smiled, his hand went down to rub her back. “We still have time.”

Dany pressed close to him. Having him beside her helped to take her mind off the game of thrones, or the war. They were easily pushed away as she focused on what was happening inside the chambers. As they both relaxed, Aegon entwined his fingers with hers. It was a small gesture, but one that made her insides flutter.

“Is this how you thought of it, of Westeros? Remember when we were still in Essos, Griff and Lemore and Duck told us stories of this place. We both soaked it up eagerly, of knights and castles and histories,” Aegon said between laboured breaths then let out an amused chuckle. “Is it how you envisioned it?”

“No, not at all.” In truth, Daenerys was disappointed in the realm that was her home. Whilst in Essos and only hearing words from others or from pages, she had let her imagination get ahead of her senses. “I imagined sprawling rivers, rolling hills and flowered plains. Towers of pure white stone rising up as high as mountains.” The sunset kingdom, a land that Viserys claimed was beautiful, more beautiful than any place in Essos. It wasn’t. “But instead everything is covered with snow. Instead of sprawling towns full of people, we have ruined hamlets inhabited only by ghosts.”  _A land scarred by war, a land yet to rebuild_.

Aegon kissed her cheek. “I can’t disagree. I imagined it would be nicer too. But this is our home, our birthright.” Daenerys shifted position to get herself more comfortable beside him. “We will win this war, I guarantee it. Then we’ll make Westeros as it should be. Under us, this land will prosper.”

“We’ll have to win a few more battles first.” She turned to him, half his face covered by his silver-gold hair that had clumped together. “Aegon, how was the battle?” She smiled, her hand trailing down his chest. “Tell me your battle against the roses.”

“I’ve fought two battles,” he said, slowly. “First outside these walls and the other on the Kingsroad—”

“So tell me about them. Has my little Egg grown into a fearsome warrior prince of legend?” He was annoyed by the playful tone she used and Dany couldn’t help but giggle. “Come, tell me. Regale me with tales of your campaign, dear nephew.”

He sighed but relented. “If I’m being honest, it wasn't how I imagined. You know the stories I read?” She nodded. He loved reading about the campaigns of his heroes. “I imagined it to be like them, in the stories. Of valiant knights riding down atop mighty destriers, armoured in bright silk and with house banners flapping above them, all charging heroically.” Dany grinned, nodding. Aegon sighed, it was a sad sound. “It wasn’t like that. Oh, outside Storm’s End, I was leading the wedge, but that couldn’t be described as a battle. It ended as soon as Lord Mathis’ line broke. Then it was simply a rout. But near Bronzegate . . . it wasn’t how I imagined it, not at all. There is much they didn’t write in the stories. The absolute terror which grips you, watching people you know get butchered. Men screaming for their mothers as they hold in their guts. The ground was mud, wet with blood. Each step I took, I feared of simply slipping. Many Reachmen did and couldn’t get back up again, they drowned.” His face tightened, like it pained him to remember. “They were swallowed by an ever-growing mound of corpses—”

_You really know how to ruin the mood, don’t you_. She placed a finger to his lips telling him to stop talking. He didn’t.

“—But then it started, midway through. I don’t know what came over me. It was like nothing else mattered but the moment. I loved it. Flowers said a man becomes a beast during the heart of battle. It was exciting, to dance so close to death. It was frightening as well, don’t get me wrong. The scenes I just mentioned no mattered. It was only people rushing in to kill me, to try and slay a dragon’s head. But they couldn’t. I fought against them all and came out on top.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry Dany, I shouldn’t . . .”

“Let’s talk about something else.” He nodded in eager agreement. There was silence before she spoke once more. “What about Dragonstone? We’re going to move north against the boy king.” She always wanted to visit the castle where she was born, the ancestral home of House Targaryen.  _Aegon conquered Westeros from there, so shall we_. If the War of the Usurper didn’t happen, her nephew would be ruling the island as his own.

“What do you think we should do?”

“We attack. We have a fleet, an army and three dragons. We sail and take back our home.” In truth, Dany just wanted to see the castle itself. She wanted to see the monsters that lined the walls, the painted table where Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion of Westeros and the dragonsmont where the dragons created their lairs.

He grinned. “Taking control of Dragonstone will give us control of the Blackwater Bay and a direct way of attacking King’s Landing by sea. Amphibious landing, something the Golden Company has proven to be skilled at.”

“Indeed,” her voice was quiet. If her memory was right, Stannis Baratheon did something similar.  _But he is a stag, we are dragons. We will succeed where he failed_. It was said that Dragonstone was the perfect place for dragons due to the volcano.  _Perhaps ours can grow larger under those conditions_. Even though Meraxes could take her into the sky, he tired easily from her weight.

“Dany,” he said, his voice soft. “I was wondering . . . when we set off north. Re-join with the Golden Company and go to King’s Landing—”

“Get you your throne,” Daenerys muttered. She couldn’t blame him for wanting it, the throne created by their ancestor. It was his birthright. The symbol of kings had been soiled for too long by the usurpers. She didn’t want to discuss it, not now.

“ _Our_  throne, my love,” he said softly, his fingers lowering to her still sensitive womanhood, gently rubbing. She trembled at his touch and bit her lip. “They say that Aegon the Conqueror ruled alongside both his wives, as equals. King Jaehaerys the First also ruled alongside Queen Alysanne the Good, and the kingdoms prospered.” He smile was soft. “Only two people should be allowed to sit the throne and those two people are in this room.”

_Two?_  She looked up at him and he gave her a little smile.  _Only dragons may sit the Iron Throne created with fires breath_. “But let’s not talk about Westeros, or of the throne.” She smirked as she felt him harden against the palm of her hand.

“Dany,” he said, his eyes closed. “I was just wondering . . . how did you get Meraxes to allow you to ride? I’m just asking because . . .”

She ran her finger down his cock and leaned over to him, planting a light kiss to his cheek. “Let’s not talk much at all, my love. Let’s just enjoy each other before the morrow.”  _There is only one dragon you should think about riding tonight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter, if I say so myself. But it has everything. Dragon riding, politics, family, strategy and some smut at the end, which was a bit aunty-climatic. ; )
> 
> I will say that I’m taking a break after this chapter. Writing and editing is hard work and quite draining, especially as I tried to keep it on a schedule. Not only that, I’ve got college and on top of that I’m working on my own original story(s). I don’t plan on abandoning this fic (I’ve still got a fair bit written down) but don’t expect any new chapters to be uploaded any time soon.


	32. Sansa III

The bony, grey haired woman laid the cup before her. “Herbal tea. It will help milady with fertility. With just a hint of lemon and honey to sweeten it.” Her eyes were grey as well and her skin was spotted from age. Her smile was kind, but Sansa didn’t know her.

“Thank you,” Sansa said as she sat by the window, watching the snow swirl outside. “Please just put it down.” The elderly woman did so, bowed her head and left the lady of the Vale and her handmaids to themselves.

“Tea?” Myranda Royce made a face as she folded some bed sheets that needed changing from the night before. “You should be celebrating, you’re no longer a maiden.” She laughed, a chortle sound that was followed by softer laughing of the surrounding ladies. “Instead you are the Lady of the Vale, wife to a handsome lord.” The last part was said with noticeable resentment. Myranda Royce had wanted to marry Harrold Arryn.

“Your children will be beautiful,” spoke Lyanna Ryger, a fair haired girl of sixteen. “Harry is the most handsome man in the Vale. You have beautiful eyes, as clear blue as the Vale banners.” Sansa blushed. The girl who was named after Sansa’s aunt stood up and brought out a selection of jewels. “All these are beautiful, but will they match them?” She cocked her head to the side and examined her lady. It was said Lyanna had a good eye for fashion.

Myranda shook her head. “I don’t care for that. What was it like, Sansa?” Her lips curved into a naughty smile. “Your first time, and with a handsome man. Was his lance as long as they say?”

Once again, Sansa blushed. “It was sweet.” That was a lie. In truth, Harry had been very drunk when they consummated the marriage. He was very handsome and when he stripped from his silks and wool, Sansa couldn’t help but stare. His body was muscled like a born warrior, with strong shoulders and a hard flat stomach. To make certain the marriage was seen as valid, Lord Petyr gave her a pin to prick her finger to ensure the lords that Harry took her maidenhead should he fail to do so. It wasn’t needed. As soon as the doors were closed, he leapt at her, biting and planting sloppy kisses. His breath stank and his mouth tasted of sour wine. He did his duty, just as she did hers.

“Sweet is boring,” Myr moaned, rolling her eyes. “Tell us truthfully, it’s our duty to spread gossip. What  _really_  happened?” She moved in closer, as did some of the other handmaidens. The Lady of the Vale felt uncomfortable. “I promise the juicy stuff won’t leave this room.” That caused a few snickers that promised otherwise.

Though she likely meant it in good faith, Sansa didn’t want to reveal anything. “It was sweet, but Harry was quite drunk.”

“I know,” spoke out Jayne. “You remember the feast?” She giggled and her eyes lit up. “He drank so much he needed help to stand up.” Turning to Sansa she said, “That news really got to him. Our dear Harry doesn’t like being deceived.” There was an edge to those words.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was Littlefingers plan. I needed to remain hidden. The Lannisters . . .”

“Littlefinger is a hero to the Vale,” another handmaiden spoke out, brushing her lady’s hair with an ivory comb. “Many lords who were suspicious now like him. He’s rescued our lady from the lion’s den and brought her under his protection.” She sighed like the young girl she was. “If only he was handsome and a knight . . .” 

_Littlefinger isn’t a hero. Littlefinger is Littlefinger_. The Hound too offered to take her out King’s Landing. He wasn’t a knight and handsome wasn’t the word to describe him. He was scary, and a murderer, but he didn't hurt her as many others did.  _Would Harry rescue me if I’m in need_ , she wondered. He certainly looked the valiant knight from the stories and in the tourney he fought like one as well. But she long ago learned looks didn’t mean anything and words were wind while actions showed one’s true colours. “Lord Baelish did save me,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”  _I would most likely be dead_. After the poisoning of her son, Cersei would seek quick punishment.  _To rest my head where my father’s once was_. The memory made her feel cold and empty.

After choosing her clothes, they dressed her in a splendid dress of sky blue satin with a white fur collar. The sleeves and collar were richly embroidered with silver myrish lace. Whilst they fretted over jewellery, Sansa decided to wear a simple silver necklace with a pale and delicate circlet fitted with sapphires. It had to be sapphires, Lady Lyanna Ryger would accept no other stone – it had to match her eyes and dress.

“You look like a true lady,” Lyanna beamed. She looked awfully proud of herself. “How I envy you.”

_You won’t if you knew what I’ve been through_. These were children of summer and winter was coming for them all.

She was led to the Great Hall where the Vale lords were waiting. Harry was waiting for her atop the lord’s throne. He was dressed handsomely. His heraldry was halved with the patterned red-and-white diamonds of House Hardyng on one side and the falcon-and-moon of House Arryn in white and blue. On his belt he wore a sword with a pommel shaped as a soaring bird of prey. His boots had been polished to a high sheen and the Young Falcon wore a half cape of bright satin that shone off the nearby torches.

All his bannermen and their ladies and sons were mumbling and laughing amongst themselves as they stood on the flanks, separated by lines of spearmen in blue capes and polished chainmail. At the foot of the dais stood two members of the Winged Knights: Ser Wallace Waynwood and Ser Lyn Corbray, both in silver mail, blue cloaks and helms with falcon feathers sprouting from the sides. Sansa trusted the former much more than the latter.

Standing at the side was Lord Petyr Baelish, watching the both of them. He was dressed in a slashed velvet doublet of grey and silver with his sigil embroidered on the breast in black thread, black puffy trousers and a black velvet cloak clasped with a silver mockingbird. After Harry was made Lord, Littlefinger was made chief advisor now he could no longer be regent. Harry had to listen to his silver tongue or risk losing support from the coastal lords who were deep within Lord Baelish’s pocket. Not the threat mattered all that much, all looked at Baelish for guidance. He was the one with the money, he was the one with Essosi connections. He had stockpiled food in the Vale – enough to last a winter, enough to support a war. If anyone did anything that went against his interests, Baelish could simply cut off those supplies and the people would starve.

“Are you ready for this, my dear?” Harrold Arryn asked with a gentle smile as she sat below him on the dais. Her own throne was simpler, made of fine oak and undetailed while his was beautifully carved. 

She nodded tightly. Sansa didn’t want to have them before her and explain themselves. The Lady of the Stormlands claimed to serve her mother, yet she carried a sword which was owned by the Lannisters. The other was her uncle but he was as much as a stranger as Brienne of Tarth. “Send them in.”

When Harry called for quiet, the hall was soon became silent for a brief moment being interrupted by a booming voice. “You bear witness before Lord and Lady Arryn of the Vale,” cried the herald. "Approach and state your case." 

They proceeded forward, Lady Brienne of Tarth and her great uncle. Both had dressed out of their travel strained clothes and into fresh garments that looked slightly more presentable. Ser Brynden Blackfish was dressed in dark somber colours with a black trout holding up his black satin half cape. The stubble had been shaven and he stood proud. The Lady Brienne stood beside him. She wore a rich blue dress that matched her eyes. She did have beautiful eyes, but that only brought attention to the rest of her face. The clothes didn’t help either. Her body was large, muscular, flat chested and ungainly. She looked like a man who was stuffed into a woman’s dress. The dress did little to hide that and instead made it obvious she looked better in armour. Sansa only felt pity.

The Young Falcon spoke up. “You’re both summoned here today to answer questions before the court. Ser Bryndon Tully, Lord Yohn Royce has offered to vouch for you. None can deny your honour and your service under Lady Lysa as Knight of the Bloody Gate.” The man only inclined his head ever so slightly. His blue eyes however remained fixed on Sansa. “You stand claiming that my lady wife’s mother, Lady Catalyn Stark nee Tully, wife of Lord Eddard Stark is alive after widespread reports she’s met an unfortunate end during the Red Wedding.”

Sansa flinched at those words. Harry didn’t sound like the boy who took her hunting, he sounded like a proper lord as he sat atop his bannerman’s throne. His voice was stern, the kind that commanded respect.

“It wasn’t. I came only from Riverrun who surrendered to the Kingslayer under direction of my nephew. The Lannister who found me, brought forth Lady Brienne and told us to find you and where you’re like to be, my lady. I was wrong and he was right, a fact that shames me.” His head lowered and face tightened. “Your mother released him if he could return you and Arya to her. A promise that the Kingslayer failed to comply with. He returned to Riverrun, returning with neither of you, instead bringing an army. I can’t confirm what Lady Brienne speaks of. I never saw Cat since the wedding after everything erupted. Lady Brienne can either be speaking lies or she could speaking the truth of Cat’s survival.”

Sansa’s face tightened. “My mother is dead,” the words were soft but carried over to them. There was a noticeable flinch with the heir of Tarth. Her voice went stronger. “My mother is dead. Killed in the Twins, in violation of guest rights and the scared laws of hospitality. Many witnesses report her death by the blade of Ser Raymund Frey.” She barely got the words out and the Vale court stared at her, as did Littlefinger who gave a slight nod of encouragement. Sansa wanted to cry, to flee from the hall and locked herself in her room, but she couldn’t. She was Lady of the Vale, married and no longer a maiden. She needed to be strong just like her mother.

“That is not true,” Lady Brienne spoke out, taking a step forward, but so did two knights who had their hands on the handles of their weapons. Neither she nor was the Blackfish were armed. They had their weapons removed, including the Valyrian steel sword named Oathkeeper. “I saw her, Lady Sansa. I saw her with my own eyes. She . . . she is alive, in a way. I know it sounds like lunacy, but she’s alive.”

“What do you mean in a way?” asked Littlefinger, taking a step forward from the side. “You cannot surely mean she’s been killed and come back.” He chuckled darkly and shook his head. “If so, you’re a fool, my lady.”

_More lies, more deceit. When will the lies end?_

Lady Brienne’s face went as crimson as a Lannister banner. “She is alive, my lords and ladies. Lady Catelyn was killed . . . but brought back.” Taking a swallow, she continued. “The lightning lord brought her back at the cost of his life. His name was Lord Beric Dondarrion.” That caused a few mummers to fill the hall. Sansa knew about him from King’s Landing. Her friend Jeyne Poole had found him handsome and wanted to marry him on the spot during the tourney. Afterwards there were strange tales about him, a man who died repeatedly by various means but would always return to fight against the Lannisters. When confronted with this, Brienne nodded. “Many times he has died, but returned by the Red Priest Thoros of Myr.”

“Thoros?” spoke out one knight, dark eyes and hair. “The one with the flaming sword, the one who drank at all the winesinks and duelled with late King Robert with a bottle?”

“Necromancy,” cried out one lord. “You dare suggest the fair Lady Catalyn was brought back with dark magic?”

Brienne looked back down on the marble flooring. “I don’t suggest, my lord, I tell the truth. She didn’t come back by him. Lady Stark was brought back by Lord Beric Dondarrion who sacrificed his life so she could return. I didn’t know how, it was after I was captured by the brotherhood and she’s . . . she’s Lady Stoneheart.”

Sansa heard of that name. People called her the Silent Sister, Mother Merciless and the Hangwoman.  _The cursed woman who wanders the Trident to bring vengeance of those who break the sacred laws_. The words the Maiden of Tarth spoke sent even more whispers to erupt throughout the hall. Many looked at Lady Brienne with untrusting eyes and shook their heads, but a few eyed her with curiosity and others with belief. “You’re claiming my mother is this vengeful woman who hangs Freys?” Her mother wouldn’t be the kind of woman to do that, her mother was gentle and caring.

“I’m not  _claiming_  it’s the case, it is the truth. I saw it with my own eyes. She ordered my hanging, and that of Ser Hyle Hunter and my squire Podrick Payne.”

“A knight of Lord Randyll bloody Tarly,” one knight spoke up. “The boy I heard was the Imp’s squire. Both serve the Lannisters. This . . .  _woman_ , serves the Lannisters too, she’s deep in their pockets. Even got a sword made gold and rubies. Lannister colours, with a Lannister lion.”

Lady Brienne turned to the voice. “They followed me. I wanted to go alone, but Ser Jaime ordered Podrick to follow as a squire, and Ser Hyles also followed me when I wished he didn’t.” Turning to Sansa, she said, “My lady, Ser Jaime gave me Oathkeeper. It was forged from your father’s own blade.” Those words made her freeze. Sansa knew Ice was melted down to make two swords. One of them was given to Joffrey for his wedding. “I was given it to protect you. Protect Lady Catelyn’s daughter with the blade of her father.” 

“More like Oathbreaker,” Lord Petyr spoke out. “You sweared to serve Lady Stark, and bring her daughters to her. Yet you failed and instead you bring Lannister bannermen to her daughter. You claim Ser Jaime wanted her, why was that?”

“To protect her. To keep her safe.”

“She’s safe here with a loving husband and behind strong stone walls, with knights swearing her protection against all who seek her harm. It could just be me, but I consider that much safer then Cersei’s dungeon.”

“No, I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t.”

“Deny it all you want, Lady Tarth. But the evidence is stacked against you.”

Brienne looked down at the marble. “Ser Jaime’s not like he was used to. Lady Stark believed you and your sister were alive in King’s Landing. So she released her prisoner in the promise of returning both you and Arya to her. I was ordered to escort him back to King’s Landing.” That caused disgruntled grunts and angry mutters to flood through the audience.

Sansa only clinched her eyes and stared at the woman before her. She spoke like she believed it but the words sounded like they came from a mad woman. “I would like to look at this sword. It was my father’s sword, I deserve to see it.”  _Even for how soiled it is_. A servant left the hall and Lady Brienne tried to speak further, but Lord Harry only ordered her silence. Oathkeeper was brought forth and presented to the court. The dark greyish steel was broken with red ripples running through the blade. The pommel was of a golden lion’s head with ruby eyes and the crossguard was a bright yellow gold, and patterned beautifully. Like the pommel, it had red rubies. It couldn’t look anymore Lannister.  _They’ve destroyed my father’s sword_. The late lord Eddard treated it with care, an heirloom from ages past.  _They’ve destroyed it and made it their own_. Sansa couldn’t stand to look at it.

His lordship studied at the sword for a moment, turned to Sansa looking to the side, then ordered it away. “You speak of Ser Jaime Lannister like a friend,” Lord Harrold spoke out, his voice not giving anything away. “Perhaps he is more.” Brienne paused at that and looked down. “You had his sword. A Valyrian swords are said to be rare. Few would willingly part with one.”

“Few would,” she agreed. There were tears noticeable in her eyes. “But he did. He said we both swore oaths concerning you, my lady. Cersei meant to have you found and killed. Neither of us wanted it. He asked me to find you and keep you safe. There he gave me Oathkeeper to protect Ned Stark’s daughter with his own blade—”

“It’s the Kingslayer,” Lord Petyr interrupted. “We all know how untrustworthy he is. Why—he manipulated Cat to release him. You too killed a king. Kingslayers have to stick together.”

“Sansa,” her uncle spoke up, looking up at her with a cragged face and greyed hair. “Might I say this woman is as stubborn as a mule. She won’t give up. She’ll sing the same song regardless of what you say and do. Many won’t be this persistent unless they believe they’re telling the truth.”

_Or believe their lies_. “You believe her?” Sansa asked, somewhat astonished.

“Against my better judgement, I’m afraid so. I will admit that a part of me wishes I could see Cat one last time, though I may regret it.”

There was a snort before a man stepped forward. It was Lord Yohn Royce. He was a large man, was the lord Runestone, almost as tall as the Hound. He had a large booming voice and a hard lined face covered with grey hair. His eyes were grey as well and he had two bushy eyebrows that looked like they were two sleeping caterpillars. The lord wore a doubt with his house colours and looked as formidable in that as he did in his bronze armour. Lord Royce turned to his liege lord. “Ser Brynden Tully is a skilled commander, reputed and served well as leader of the Bloody Gate,” Royce announced. “Not a man’s honour I question.”

“What are you suggesting, my lord?” Harry asked.

“We swore you our swords, my Lord Arryn. To take back the Riverlands from the Freys and then to Winterfell to remove those Boltons. They are backstabbers and don’t deserve to live whilst righteous men and women cover in fear.” He turned to the Blackfish. “He knows the Trident more than anyone here. It’s his home. Under the Young Wolf he served well as an outrider and is a talented commander.” There were shouts of agreement. It was clear that the Vale lords and knights wanted blood. Sansa wanted revenge, but at the same time she feared in bringing more war. Westeros had been bloodied enough.

Lord Petyr turned to him. His grey-green eyes sparkling. “You did swear to protect your lady wife, my lord. The Boltons and Freys are a threat to that, Queen Cersei as well.”

Harry nodded, and looked to be holding back a grin. “What do you say, my lords?” He was a young man and like many unbloodied knights, he craved battle and prestige and glory. He spoke of leading a cavalry charge and having his name sung after his death.

They roared their approval. “We’ve been waiting for a fight,” Lord Royce declared. “It was our late lady who held us back as the Starks and Tully’s bled, your house, my lady. We wanted to aid them in their time of need, like during Robert’s Rebellion when we overthrew the Mad King. I swore an oath of everlasting friendship to your departed father. I will do so again for his daughter and heir.” He rose up a sword. It was the custom for all the Vale lords to carry swords on their person wherever they went.

“Aye,” cried Lord Royce Coldwater. “Lady Sansa is the last Stark. Her family has ruled Winterfell since Winterfell itself existed. They are the only family worthy, not the Boltons who got their way by stabbing their liege lord in the back.” He spat. “House Coldwater will fight for you, my Lord and Lady Arryn.”

Sansa turned back at her uncle and Lady Brienne. The former looked at her with Tully eyes, strong and with a face that didn’t show his thoughts. The other looked at her with blue eyes, but they looked conflicted. “Send Lady Brienne Tarth to her chambers,” Sansa demanded, though her voice barely carried through the noisy, echoing hall. Ser Wallace Waynwood heard her, gave a nod and escorted the woman away. Sansa trusted her uncle more, if just because he was her blood.

Lord Harrold Arryn, the Young Falcon, stood up from his throne and ordered the hall into silence. They did so and turned to him. Harry’s eyes scanned his vassals. “Call the banners. The Vale is going to war.”

When everything finished in the Great Hall, Littlefinger escorted her and Harry to his solar so they could further speak in private. It would only the three of them, with a single knight waiting outside. Baelish looked at both of them, showing a subtle smile at Sansa but not Harry. Then his face went serious. “Do you wish for anything to drink, my lord, lady?” His voice was soft.

Harry accepted the offer. “Some wine would be nice, Lord Baelish. Do you know how long this would take?” He looked around the small room where books and scrolls piled the table. Harry wasn’t a fan of reading, Sansa knew. He saw it as the duty of maesters and much preferred his martial pursuits.

“As long as it needs to be, my lord.” Petyr smiled. He went over to his desk and poured three cups with his finest wine, imported from the Arbor. Littlefinger showed that characteristic smile once more. “There is news from the Riverlands, my lord,” Lord Petyr told them. “They say that Lord Emmon Frey, my vassal of Riverrun, his wife Genna Lannister, nephew Daven Lannister and his new wife have all been butchered in their halls.” He turned to Sansa. “Or should I say your uncle’s halls.” He pulled out a rolled-up parchment, the seal already broken.

“What are you talking about,” Harry demanded, snatching the scroll from Littlefinger.

“They were butchered, eerily similar to the Red Wedding,” the chief advisor continued. “Not the only news we’ve got from the Riverlands. The Freys are fighting each other and the column sent to take Lord Edmure Tully to Casterly Rock has been attacked. It seems the Brotherhood without Banners are getting more confident by the day.”

“You’re the lord Paramount—”

“In name only, my Lord Arryn. The Freys don’t respect me, few do. I’m just an upstarted money counter in their eyes. I’m not a son of a great house, neither am I married into one . . . no longer. I could tell them to stop and unite, but they won’t. They’re hungry like a pack of starving dogs. They’ll fight over the scraps thrown down from those above. They’ll fight and remain oblivious as hunters take them one by one.”

“They don’t sound that cunning.”

“Dogs aren’t cunning,” Littlefinger smiled. “But wolves are. Though to call them dogs could be considered inappropriate, they’re more like rats. Rats breed faster and it’s said that the Late Lord Frey made his own army from his cock.”

“ _Late_  Lord Frey?” Sansa asked. He was the one that planned it. It was under his halls when he killed her mother and brother.

“That is the other news, my lady,” continued Littlefinger. “Our Lord Waldar of the Crossing has tragically passed away. Apparently he died whilst bedding his new wife, young and widowed. Is there a more unfortunate girl then one to be widowed so young?” The last part seemed aimed at her, Sansa was sure. “An unfortunate thing. He won’t be seen to face justice for the crimes he committed against gods and men. But that’s the world, sadly. It was his death that caused this little Frey conflict, or at least intensified it. Without him to unite the divided family, and no clear line of succession, it’s simply left the lot of them bickering. What better time to attack when a house is divided against itself?”

Harry nodded, his blue eyes sparkling although he tried to hide his emotions. He failed. “What’s good to know, my lord. I didn’t know you had so good connections, or eyes.”

“I’m more than just a money counter,” Littlefinger smiled that lazy little smile.

“That you are.”

They talked further after that, such as the stores of food Baelish had shipped in from Essos. He had many connections in to the free cities of the east, especially Braavos. It made sense, for his great-grandfather was a Braavosi sellsword and he even wore their fashion to an extent. Then they talked about that banners would join in the campaign. Littlefinger promised to use his connections to aid their campaign, just as Sansa expected. Also as anticipated, Harry lost interest when they talked about preparation and he requested that he and his wife be excused, preferring to leave it to Lord Petyr to do so instead. Sansa tried to warn him about giving Littlefinger too much power but her husband only smiled and said that Lord Baelish was capable and that she should be thankful to him for saving her. Her husband was a fool, a handsome fool, but a fool nonetheless.

Lord Harry turned to her and smiled, his dimple drawing her eye. “We should go hunting, my dear. Like what we did before getting married. Perhaps this time we’ll catch something other than a cold.”

She wanted to, but Lord Baelish didn’t. “Pardon me, my lord. But may I speak to your dear wife in private for a moment?” When Harry didn’t reply fast enough, Baelish continued. “I looked after her, my lord. I took care of her, pretending to be her father at the cost of my own honour. Pretending I fathered a bastard when I haven’t. I couldn’t for I only had eyes for my lady love. Now she’s dead.” He averted his eyes. Sansa knew he was lying, but to Harry it looked like Littlefinger was genuine.

“Of course, Lord Baelish,” the Young Falcon said, softly. Turning to his wife, Harry said, “After you’re done, can we go? Where we did before?”

“Don’t wait for me,” Sansa replied. “I know where to go.”  He smiled at her and left the room.

Then the door was shut behind him, Petyr chuckled and walked over beside the fire and warmed his hands. “Now with your beloved falcon gone, we can have a proper talk.” He smiled at her before sitting atop his desk, arms folded. “I’m sure there is much to talk about. Let’s start with this Lady Brienne?”

Sansa nodded. “Is what she saying true? I . . . I heard it in her voice. She seems to believe it and my uncle believes so. I  _am_  the Lady of the Vale and you are serving as lord  _advisor_. Do you believe she’s truthful?” Sansa wished what Lady Brienne said was true, that her mother was alive, she wanted that more than anything. At King’s Landing her father died before her, at Winterfell Bran and Rickon were betrayed by Theon Greyjoy and at the Twins her brother Robb was killed.  _If there is a chance my mother still lives . . ._

“She claims your mother came back from the dead, and in no way do I believe that. Magic doesn’t exist, sweetling.” He cupped her check and she looked up at him. His fingers were warm and his skin was coarse. “Your great-uncle is an old man, and they tend to be a superstitious lot, even more when they’ve been in war. Many believe there are ghosts lurking around. I know for my grandfather did, he woke up in the dead of night screaming, saying there were creatures in the shadows.”

The lady of the Vale only nodded. “Perhaps . . . but she seemed truthful, even if it sounds impossible.”

“Many men and women can delude themselves into believing their own lies. It’s a tragic thing if they find out the truth.” He chuckled, shook his head and sat down on the edge of the table. “I am only an advisor, my lady. One who is looking out for your interests.” She doubted that but Petyr continued. “There is news coming in from the capital. You remember Cersei? Of course you do, little wolf. She’s been released by the faith, apparently being tried innocent. Yes . . . you won’t believe half of what’s happening in the capital, sweetling. When I thought she couldn’t get any worse, our beloved queen stumbles from one idiocy to another. I always knew she would destroy the realm as long as she was at the helm, but I never knew it would be this fast. It’s honestly quite worrying, I planned for her to last a little longer. It’s like a person plummeting from the moon door, they only continue falling faster and faster, until they hit the ground.” He sighed, for the briefest moment he looked frustrated. Then he smiled that casual smile he regularly wore. “But that means our plans need to go ahead a little faster, shouldn’t they?” Not giving her time to answer, Lord Petyr stood up. “I’m afraid to say we’ll have no peace as we move towards the new four queens.”

“Four queens?”  _Last time you said three_.

Petyr only smiled and cupped both her cheeks and stared deep into her eyes. “You need a child, Sansa. You need an heir.” Littlefinger’s face flickered for a briefest moment. “I assume you consummated the marriage?”

She felt herself blush despite herself. “We did.” His face gave nothing away. “But being a mother . . . having children scares me,” Sansa admitted. She remembered Bran and Rickon’s birth. She heard her mother’s screams, even though her father sent her away from the Keep with Robb and Jon to play. The thought of herself being in that much pain . . .

“Many of my girls felt the same way,” he said softly, hands holding her shoulders. “If you are so unsure, you can wait. I’m sure that Harry wouldn’t mind. He likes the process but not the result. I know the boy well enough, and his kind. He’ll go hunting when the babe arrives and return when you’re done, giving you some fur hide as a reward for giving him his heir.”

What he said reminded Sansa of the words Queen Cersei spoke about Robert. “So what are you suggesting?”  _Moon tea_ , she knew what he was about to suggest. He took a strand of hair and brushed it behind her ear. He didn’t say a word but she knew he meant it. “I can’t . . . I’m married and I need to perform my duty.” She knew how chaotic the Vale would be if anything happened to Harrold. There was no clear descendants of the House of Arryn, and it would likely cause a civil war at worst.  _Bring further death and destruction_.

“I know, because I arranged it.” His breath smelled of a mix of wine and mint. “You will be a good mother, Sansa, and a better ruler then your husband. Harry Arryn does need heirs, that much is true. Even more when he’s going to be leading the campaign into the Riverlands.”

She knew he would. How could he not? The knights of the Vale were esteemed, they respected martial ability above all. If Harry wanted the respect from his bannermen, he needed to be seen as a warrior. Leading at the front was a sure way to do that. But it was dangerous as well. Littlefinger leaned closer and Sansa immediately took a step back. “I apologise, my lord. But he is waiting and we both know my lord husband isn’t the patient sort.”

Lord Baelish quickly recomposed himself and smiled. “We both know he isn’t, our dear Harry. Best go. I’m sure he's wearing his boots out.”

He couldn’t stay on one place for long, could her Harry. Sansa mouthed a goodbye and headed to her husband, more then eager to get as much distance from the court as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back and will be releasing more chapters, but less regularly then before. Tell me what you think. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	33. Lyarra Snow

That night, she sat beside the gentle glow of the hearth.

Sellswords sat beside her, the young and old, scarred and fresh, those who long fought in the various disputes of Essos and those who joined recently at the prospect of plunder and glory in a land not their own. Not one was the same. A boy with golden-brown hair and only slightly older than herself handed Lyarra Snow a wineskin, but was declined. The girl needed to keep her wits on her and it was only due to the sellswords annoying encouragement that she sat down beside them as they talked about whatever was on their mind.

One officer called Myrmello warmed his hands before the fire. He was slender and pretty, with full lips, a thick mane of silvery hair and a sweet sounding voice. “I swear, if it rains one more bloody time, I’m going to mutiny.”

Another officer laughed, this one Ternesio Ahrerris. His hair was dark grey with strands of black. “Just make sure you don’t tell our beloved leader. He would have to hate to whip his favourite boy.”

“I am not a whore,” the pretty Volantene snapped, immediately standing up with his hand on the pommel of his dirk. None of the others looked perturbed, if anything they looked amused from the outburst.

“No, but I doubt he would mind,” a Dothraki sellsword snickered as he loosely held a cup of wine, his third if Lyarra was paying attention and she knew she was. “You might even enjoy it.” That caused a bark of laughter to escape his mouth and the Volantene noble’s face went red before he stormed off.

“Myrmello, Myrmello,” repeated Tazel with white-silver hair oiled and tied up in a braid. “Always thin skinned that one. I sometimes wonder how he even got here, if not for his family name.”

“Those with bloated pride are quick to find offense,” murmured Lyarra, thinking back on some of those she encountered. Arya Stark had encountered many in her encounters.

One soldier turned to her, his olive skin flushed and his breath stank of ale. “You’re from the north, bastard? That savage land above the Neck?”

Lya bristled, glared at the man, then nodded.  _Words are wind_. “I was born there. That is correct. Cold already, sellsword?”

“Aye. Just stepped onto Westeros and I’m already freezing my cock off.” 

“Winter will only get worse,” replied Ternesio. “Isn’t that correct, girl?” Lyarra nodded. “You once lived far north, how could you survive it? No wonder you came to Essos. I would do likewise, just to escape this weather.” He took another swig of his cup. “Now you’re being sent back. How do you feel, assassin, if you have the ability to?”

“The Northmen are tough and stubborn. We make do.”  _The north is my home_. Both Lyarra’s and Arya of House Stark. That was where she was born, where she was raised before being forced out. The stories of the two girls were similar, the waif once made a comment that the best lies always had a grain of truth.  _But mine is more than just a grain_. Just before reaching the Disputed Lands, on the long voyage out of Braavos, she had decided to call herself Lyarra Snow, also known as Lya. Lyarra was the name from the north, Arya Stark’s grandmother. It was now the name of a name of a girl who fled from Westeros, a bastard from where a lord had forced himself upon a cobbler’s wife and was exiled from her home. There she found her way to Braavos and went to join the House of Black and White in a final act of desperation.

“So true. We’ve not even started matching towards King’s Landing. That’s the Golden Company’s unfortunate role.” He chuckled. “At least they're clearing the way for us and we’ll be at full strength.”

“Aye. It’s our time for glory, not those who cover themselves with gold and serve the Blackfyre cause,” eagerly said a sellsword Lyarra didn’t know the name of, but he was old and scarred, with a rough voice and small watery eyes.

“Quiet, you dull idiot. You want to damn us all with your flapping gums?” hissed the man named Allaquo Stogarys. A stout man, with golden hair and purple eyes. He was a fan of board games and even challenged her to a few. He would beat her of course, just as he did most others, but he had been kinder than most. “The Blackfyre’s are all dead. Remember that. Our heads are on the line if any of us say otherwise. The king especially. He wouldn’t hesitate . . .”

“Prince,” corrected Tazel, interjecting before sucking on the wineskin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s a prince, not a king. He won’t be until he’s crowned by the leader of the faith. That would only add more legitimacy and that means power in the eyes of the plebs.”

Lya thought about those words. People would bend the knee to those they believed were in charge and against someone like Cersei, it was an easy choice to make. When she looked back up, the conversation had changed once more. The boy with golden-brown hair and brown eyes was busily talking about the golden queen’s walk of atonement and the fight between Ser Theodan Wells and the knight called Ser Robert Strong. 

“They say the faith’s been selling lead and silver and gold in order to buy weapons and armour. Not just any weapons mind you, but magical ones. Magic’s comin’ back thanks to the dragons. So why not magical weapons and armour, with all runes from days of old?”

A Dothraki sellsword armoured in a suit in metal scales shook his head. He was tall and scarred, with hair cut so short it looked like he was bald. “Magic is not something to be celebrated, but something to be feared. It’s like holding a shard of glass or a sword without a hilt. It may be formidable, but will only cut you . . . or kill you. Only fools trust in magic.”

Stogarys snorted. He was drunk, Lyarra was sure. “They say the ancient Valyrians were masters of the rune, perhaps we can find ourselves some for ourselves. We have the blood. Some of us here, anyhow.”

The Dothraki shook his head, but the others seemed to be in agreement with the officer.

“Not unless you give me it,” one soldier laughed. “Magic weapons . . . what we need, just another thing to benefit us.”

“Aye. How can we not win this war? It’ll be the easiest conflict we’ve fought in. What have we got? Dragons, Unsullied, Golden Company, the Dornish,  _us_.” He laughed and took a sip of his drink. “We’re already sweeping through this backwater land and we hasn’t even seen combat.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Lyarra Snow smiled impishly. “They say that arrogance and underestimating your opponent is the fastest way to lose.”  _And die_. That was how Arya Stark had survived her travels through Westeros. She didn’t get cocky nor foolish. She kept her head low and survived. Those before her seemed all the eager to rise their head before a swinging axe.

“We are the heirs of Valyria. Children of the Fourteen Flames. Underestimating your opponent is only dangerous if your opponent was competent to begin with.” He shook his head like  _she_  was the fool. “Not like you need to worry. You’ve got your own set of duties, we’ve got ours.”

Oh, she did. That she was certain. The cheesemonger and captain had visited Braavos for the reasons of both removing the Westerosi lord who was sent to deal with the Iron Bank as well as hire themselves a Faceless Man. “A pretty face she’s got,” spoke the Dragonseed after the play ended at the Gate, dark eyes lingering on her features. He was referring to the mask, she knew. Arya’s face was long and plain. Arya horseface, she had been called. Sansa was the pretty one, the one whose attention boys yearned for. “It could be useful. Though I wished it was more homely. she’s too easy to remember and spot."

“Not that it matters,” spoke the golden haired magister who twisted at his beard. He was the fattest man she had ever seen and in Braavos there were quite a few. His body was bloated and his chins wobbled with every word. “A faceless man—or girl can change their face to anyone else. She’ll be perfect to go behind their lines and cause further havoc. No one would expect one that looks so young.”

The sellsword captain smiled a cruel smile at that. “Further chaos, something you seem to be good at, Mopatis. It wasn’t dragons that brought Westeros to its knees, no it’s not. Though the people can think otherwise and are free to do so. Perception is power, belief becomes truth; isn’t that how the words go, magister?”

“I’m afraid you know more about it more than me, captain. You were the one who studied at Volantis.”

“A shame.”

She had no idea what they had been talking about but Lyarra Snow found herself being brought back to the present at the sound of her name. She looked over at the sellswords who were looking at her with amusement in their eyes. “What did you say?”

The Dothraki chuckled and cocked his head. “You’re a Westerosi girl. Tell us the words of the great houses. See if you have better knowledge of this land then Allaquo here and stop him from being an insufferable cunt.”

She couldn’t help but laugh and turned to the sellsword officer who had a smirk plastered on his face. “How about a little game,” he asked. “That’ll make it more entertaining for all of us. We give you a name of a lordly house and you give us their words. Seeing as you’re from the north, we’ll begin with them. How about that?”

Lyarra Snow wasn’t the one to step down from a challenge. She nodded. “Try me.”

A few legionaries began muttering wagers. “Fine then. Stark?”

“Winter is coming.”

“Bolton?”

“Our knives are sharp.”

“Karstark?”

“The sun of winter.” Lyarra looked at the men who were eying her with curiosity. Perhaps she said it too quickly. “You think I was trained to solely use poison and a knife? You’re wrong. I believe I’m well versed in the subject, and many others.” Once more she gave an impish smile. “They taught me well in Braavos.”

Allaquo's grin only grew. “Fine then, something a little harder if you’re the kind to brag. House of Lannister?”

She took pause. While Arya Stark knew the words, Lyarra more than likely wouldn’t. Lya was only a crofter’s daughter from the north. That was the story she had made up and needed to act it.  _Hear me roar_. “A Lannister always pays its debts.”

He shook his head in disappointment. “A popular saying, but not true. I’m afraid you lost that bought, you little braggart.”

Lyarra looked down.  _A Lannister isn’t the only one with debts to pay_. “Then I’m afraid I can’t match your wits.” She heard the doors of the hall open and see a knight approach with two Unsullied in their black cloaks and horsehair crests, domed shields painted with the Targaryen dragon. The knight was a large and balding man, with strong shoulders and a thick brown beard. On his green surcoat was the bear of house Mormont. Arya knew of the man: Ser Jorah Mormont, former-lord of Bear Island who brought dishonour upon all North by selling poachers to Tyroshi slavers.

_Slavers, sellswords, eunuchs and sons of whores_ , the Targaryen army was a colourful bunch. She didn’t like the man before her, someone who fled from the lord’s justice after what he had done.  _Yet the princess keeps him . . ._  Which was even more startling after what happened further east.

“Snow,” he said, his voice gruff. “It is late. You will do well to come with me.”

“And ruin a perfectly good game? Thank you, Mormont,” moaned one sellsword. The exiled lord didn’t seem to like that.

Lyarra sighed and shook up from the chair. There was a room in the central keep of Storm's End where she could be kept with an eye on. She didn’t put up a struggle, Lya had duties set forth by the House of Black and White.

That night she dreamed of rushing through the woods towards some anguished cries. The scent of damp soil, bark and pine needles filled her nostrils. It was an earthy smell but there was blood as well. She homed in on that and leaped over a collapsed tree. There she saw three men leaning against trees, battered and bleeding with the tattered grey-blue cloaks of the Twins. The pack threw themselves upon them. One fled and the other two pulled out their weapons, but none couldn’t match the wolves who attacked from all sides. Their loud cries echoed off through the forest and there was a taste in her mouth.

She liked those dreams. They were exciting. She was swift and strong, able to do what Lyarra, Mercy nor any of the others could do. They were Arya’s dreams, her wolf dreams, not Lyarra’s. Lyarra more than likely never saw a wolf, not a live one.  _I am not Arya_ , she sometimes repeated in her mind. But try as she might, she could never get rid of it, if anything the wolf dreams grew stronger and stronger since sailing across the Narrow Sea.

She woke early morning.

The girl sat up from the straw stuffed bed within a dark cell that might as well be a dungeon. It likely had been. It was a round room, with a heavy iron studded door and a shutter that let in the cold winds. Flakes of snow swirled inside and tingled against her skin. It wasn’t like the sun of the Disputed Lands, it was the feeling of cold of the North.

It felt like home.

Lyarra rolled from the bed and leaned on the grey walls for support. They were dry, but they were cold and gave the northern bastard goose pimples. She dressed quickly in the darkness, pulling the tunic over her head then put on shoes of soft leather. Midway though, she heard footsteps and only hastened her pace.

When the door opened with the ringing of keys and the grinding of rusted hinges, she had just managed to put on her trousers. In a way, she was thankful they were Unsullied. Unfortunately both stood to the side and Mormont stepping forward. He couldn’t look any more displeased and she wondered if he ever smiled. “With her Grace’s permission, you can take to the courtyard and continue your . . . dancing,” the words couldn’t sound any more discouraging, but Lya didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to earn the respect of a slaver.

Lyarra followed him though the catacombs underneath Storm’s End. The girl remembered back to when Mercy disappeared and Lyarra was escorted to the Disputed Lands, where she was introduced to the dragon princess, the very same girl Cat of the Canals had encountered in Braavos. The pavilion where the Targaryen resided in was expansive, larger then the house Mercy had lived in, and furnished with soft myrish carpets, feather stuffed mattresses, a copper tub and a desk full of quills and inks and parchments, maps, a cyvasse gaming board and a fruit bowl. Mercy took note of a large leather saddle in the corner of the tent, right next to a stand of immaculate armour with a helm shaped to look like a dragon. The princess laid back on a pile of silken pillows stuffed with goose feathers. There was a silver necklace around her neck, dangling from it was a miniature locket. Just like in Braavos, she was beautiful: with full lips, large eyes and thick silvery hair. Even her dress was silver, decorated with myrish lace. Lyarra Snow was quick to know why she was called the Silver Dragoness. Daenerys wasn't alone. On either side were her two handmaidens. The older girl was comely, with the blonde hair and blue eyes of the Lysene. While the other one was a girl who was the youngest of the three. She had a round, flat face, black hair and eyes like molten gold.

“What is this?” Daenerys Targaryen had demanded when Lyarra was brought it. The princess turned to the black haired sellsword. “Tell me captain, why you bring me this girl?”

She wasn’t on good terms with the sellsword, Lyarra had been quick to find out. She always spoke tensely around him and with an edge to her voice. The princess’s Lysene handmaiden was a different story, shooting smiles at the man. It was a look he returned in kind with a cockiness that Arya remembered being strikingly similar to Theon Greyjoy. Captain Valarr gave an over-the-top bow. “Magister Illyrio brings the future queen of Westeros one final gift before you sail off. He hopes you have good use for it.”

“Another handmaiden?” Daenerys studied Lyarra Snow, just as the young girl studied the Targaryen. “I have two, why would I need another?”

“This isn’t a handmaiden, Your Grace, but a Faceless man—or girl.” As if on que, the princess's protector drew his sword. “No need to worry, princess. She’s yours to do as you desire, without question.” His smile only widened like there was a secret jest only he knew about. “She’ll kill your enemies for you, but only a few.”

“Three,” Lyarra said at that moment. Everyone had their eyes on her, but didn’t seem to expect her to talk. “Magister Illyrio Mopatis has only offered enough to the Many Faced God for three mercies. No more.”

“Three wishes,” Valarr laughed, folding his arms. “Make sure not to waste them, Your Grace.”

“A faceless,” came the rough voice of a soldier who stood beside his master. Lya Snow recognised the bear and green surcoat, but would later know him as Ser Jorah Mormont. “You bring an assassin before Her Grace? Are you a fool?”

“I bring a gift before Her Grace, Mormont. More than you’ve ever done.” The tone was harsh and had a sharp point. “What have you done exactly? Get her some books and trail after her like a lost cub? Maybe once we land, you can prove yourself useful.”

Mormont stepped forward but Daenerys Targaryen stopped them before they started a fight. From how she reacted, it didn't seem like the first time both men butted heads. She turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“No One,” answered the girl. “We of the Faceless Men have no names, we have no families. We lose our identity upon joining. It makes it easier to serve the Many Faced God and do his will.” That was what the Kindly Man told her. “But if you wish for a name, you can call me Lyarra Snow. I was born in the north before joining.”

Daenerys Targaryen looked at her curiously, then nodded. “Be as it may. If you’re going to help me, I won’t deny it, nor will I force you.”

Lya thanked her, more for politeness than anything else. She knew they would later tell her to do things, and the girl had to do them.

During the wait in the Disputed Lands, she either explored around the camp or practised with needle. When she did practise, a handful of sellswords would circle, make jests, laugh or simply watch with curiosity. A few she knew were Bravos, or at least had experience in Water Dancing. Sellsword companies tended to a diverse groups and the Legion was no exception. Many were of Volantis, Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, others from the other Free Cities, some even came from distant Ghiscar and the Dothraki Sea. It was obvious, while they dressed in similar armour and spoke the same tongue, their features and accents couldn’t be more different. Even though all were drilled with spears and shields in formation under the tight supervision of their officers, many were well-taught in the fighting styles of their native lands: Ghiscari spear dancing, Tolos slingers with their lead pellets, Elyrian skirmishers and Dothraki who shot on horseback while galloping in a loose circle.

One more than one occasion, Lyarra sat down and talked to them, with many provided decent stories of their lives and as sellswords, the language they used was more than colourful. Remembering words from the sailors in Braavos, Lyarra flavoured her words that many sellswords (though the officers preferred they be called soldiers) burst out in laughter. The more she talked with the men, the more warmly they treated her instead of a queer curiosity they sometimes saw wandering the camp.

One day, the company’s paymaster Groleo invited her to his tent to play cyvasse. He was a thin man who died his hair gold. Within his expansive tent, he kept a monkey that he occasionally fed bits of food from his plate. It hadn't the first time she played cyvasse, having played with Allaquo Stogarys who was a master at the game as well as a few in Braavos. Groleo at least gave her a chance and provided good conversation as they played. During one of their games, he gave her a story of how the Valyrian Freehold was founded.

“Valyria was once a peaceful land. Ruled by various kingdoms and republics, both great and small. They skirmished against each other, as all states did and still do. But it was one fateful day that the Ghiscari arrived. They had an empire and lusted after slaves to mine their copper, warm their beds and work their fields. One by one, the coastal lands were made empty with sword and the shackle. Nothing could stand up to the Ghiscari legions who looted and pillaged, raped and butchered; setting up vassal kings who would give them a yearly tribute of gold, grain and comely children. That was until the ancient hero Galaedar the First Lord journeyed into one of the fourteen flames and came out with the first dragon eggs. It was said he made a deal with the fourteen gods of Valyria who reside underneath one of each volcano. No one knows what deal he signed for such power, but when he returned, the eggs hatched into those creatures you can see outside. Creatures with wings that can blot out the sun, unleash it's power to turn armies and fleets and cities to ruin. Fire made flesh, a living weapon born from the gods themselves. Well, he used those weapons to unite the various peoples of Valyria, but instead of ruling as an emperor or king, a massive empire ruled by himself and his children and his children’s children, he gave every landowner a chance to decide their fate. For it was their land as much as his. That was how the Freehold was created. It was him and the forty champions that formed the first dragon riders and they became the ancestors of the forty families. Together they turned back the Ghiscari raiders and but what was when the Ghiscari-Valyrian wars started. Those backwards savages to the east weren’t happy with their navy being turned to ash as well as their legions. Looking at dragons make men hunger and lust for power. Power is a man’s weakness, one that cannot be denied.”

In no way did Arya doubt it. It was different then the story she heard from the Kindly Man, but she never expected different from officers who took pride in their heritage. She moved her elephant and said, “They say dragons plant no trees. How can you make something from a creature that can only destroy?”

The officer nodded and studied the board, clicking his tongue as he pondered. “They don’t plant, but you could say they create the perfect conditions for new trees to rise from the earth. Ash is fertile and dragons can make much of it. In a more metaphorical sense, they are the bringers of death and destruction, but also change. They can be used to change the states of empires and kingdoms, destroying the old order and allowing the new one to rise. After all, who would question the will of one or many who can summon the wings of death and bring it upon all?”

She didn’t say a word and just listened, moving her pieces in ways she had been taught.  _The Valyrians lusted after power and their empire fell to the doom._  A saying was that history repeated itself . . . well, only time will tell.

As the locks turned with a loud click, Lyarra Snow was brought back to the present where they walked down the halls of Storm’s End. While she was sworn to their service, it didn’t seem the Targaryens trusted her. Not that Lya could blame them, she was an assassin who could change faces – a tactic that stressed she manipulate her targets in order to get in close. As such, two guards trailed after her every day. But today it was four, two in front and two behind. They were no longer called Unsullied, they were now called after the black woollen cloaks draped on their shoulders. Princess Daenerys believed Unsullied would sully the reputation of their campaign and character if the people saw them as slave soldiers.

Lyarra Snow agreed.

They weren’t like the Unsullied she heard about. The ones from the stories were said to be unfeeling, unmoving and mindlessly obedient. The ones before her were free and acted like it. They played dice in the camp as well and talked with sellswords and followers, if somewhat awkwardly and many clearly looked uncomfortable. They stood along the hall in scale and chainmail armour. Those of higher standing wore horsehair crested helms instead of the spiked caps. Those of common rank wore simple helms that fully covered their faces except for narrow slits for the eyes and mouth. All in all, they might as well have been carved from black stone.

They took her to the courtyard. A column of wagons of food had been brought up from the latest food shipment, brought in by oxen and mules. It was enough to supply the army and the surrounding territory. “The carrot and the stick,” Vogarro Nefatis had declared, “We control the food shipments going in and out of Westeros. If this bloody winter continues as it is, they’ll have to turn to us, or starve.” It had been raining and the ground had turned to mud, yet that didn’t dissuade a group of sellswords who wrestled as their companions formed a circle, watching and gambling. Others were being drilled in the yard. Sellswords and Unsullied stood in formation with overlapping shields, both sides pushed against each other. Officers watched and shouted at their men over the slightest mistake and any form of insubordination was quickly dealt with, both on and off the battlefield. A few men that had sneaked off to the local towns had been left overnight on a set of platforms, their backs bare and bloody from where a cat o' nine tails had torn their flesh apart with each savage strike.

Lyarra shuddered in the cold and proceeded to where a few straw dummies had been set up. Pulling out Needle, she stared at the blade, the handle and Mikken’s mark in the steel. It was ill fitted to be a proper sword, the blade too short and the handle too small around her hand. It was no more than a toy.  _Stick them with the pointy end_ , it seemed to whisper to her.  _Don’t tell Sansa_. She had only been a silly little girl when it was made for her. But it was hers, only hers.

In her hands were the memories of Arya Stark of Winterfell, of Lord Eddard and Lady Catalyn. Of her brothers Robb, Bran and Rickon, her sister Sansa and their half-brother Jon. The cold air of Winterfell, the great grey walls that kept them protected and safe from the outside world. The laughter of the feasting hall, the heart tree with its stern expression and scary face. The earthy smells of the Godswood, the fresh scent of pine from the trees, the sound of the wind rushing through the leaves of the sentinels. The slapping of wooden shutters and the feeling of a warm hearth after a cold day.

_Jon gave this to me and I kept it_. The girl remembered his smile and the way he messed her hair.  _He called me little sister_. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and the sword suddenly felt heavier in her hand. No one saw her and Arya angrily brushed the tears away, stood up straight and took in a deep breath. She wasn’t Arya anymore, she was a servant of the Many Faced God.  _He must have his due_  . . .

But she didn’t feel like No One, she felt like Arya of House Stark. Not Cat of the Canals, not Arry, Weasel, Squab, Salty, Nan the cupbearer nor Mercy. Only Arya, who had a list of names, a family and home . . . or she did. Winterfell was destroyed, her family missing or dead and many of the list were taken from her. Arya had been told who lived and who died. There was still Queen Cersei in King’s Landing, Ser Illyn Payne, Ser Merlyn Trant and others.  

House Stark and Targaryen were once vassal and lord, then enemies. She and the two dragons had common cause against the Lannisters.  _But I can’t reveal myself. I’ll be a hostage to them just like how my sister was in King’s Landing_. She only heard that Sansa had disappeared after Joffrey’s death. But knowing her, Arya doubted her sister would survive like she had.  _I will work with them, from the shadows_. Neither dragon could know until the right time, maybe never. They were neither enemy nor friend, but it could change to either. Dragons were unpredictable and dangerous.

That morning, she practised her water dancing. A few sellswords give her pointers on her blade. More than once she had been told Needle was too small, but Arya couldn’t imagining parting with it. She parried and dodged, thrusted forwards before moving back, imagining the dummy was swinging a sword at her. Bravos also were said to use a smaller blade which was used to properly parry and strike an opponent where they least expected it, but she didn’t have that so she practised with only the one.

Midway through a session, the knight returned. “His and her Grace desire your appearance in a private audience.” Lyarra Snow only frowned at Ser Jorah of Bear Island, but put Needle back in the sheath and followed him inside the Keep of Storm’s End and to the lord’s solar.

When she got to the solar, she was met with the words, "So this is the girl?" They came from the dragon prince leaning against the table. He stood tall with an easy confidence about him. He wasn't dressed like a prince. The young man had brown trousers, a studded belt and a loose fitting white tunic. Atop the table, cups of wine were being filled by Missandei with her large eyes that switched from between the cups to herself. Alongside them were four black cloaks and Ser Jorah Mormont. The two Kingsguard knights stood outside the room. There was Valarr in black mail and a purple cloak held in place with a black iron pin. Beside him was the eunuch called Greyworm. His face was smooth, hair short and brown, face serious and stern. His dark eyes not leaving her.

“This is the girl,” the sellsword stated, his lips curving as he looked down on Lyarra Snow. The girl only frowned at him. All throughout their ride south from Braavos he had been busy trying to get through her lies, that and playing that stupid lute of his. “Quite a splendour if I say so myself. A vision of northern beauty, a real head turner.” He chuckled. The girl before him was dressed in dull brown trousers and a woollen tunic stained with sweat. She was caked in mud and melting snow. There were muck and trigs in her tangled hair. Not the appearance one should look in front of royalty, instead of a girl who lived and thrived in Flea Bottom or the woods. Neither Targaryens seemed to care, if anything they looked amused.

“Aye, a real head turner,” the princess replied, her tone was softer and flavoured with some humour. Her purple eyes found Needle resting at Lyarra’s hips. “Never saw a girl carry a sword on her person. Granted, I once desired to practice when I was little.” Releasing a gentle laugh, she continued, “So nephew, it looks like you’ve found your Visenya. Not what I expected, but still . . .” He blushed at that and Daenerys Targaryen couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m hoping that’s a joke, princess,” Ser Jorah spoke out, his voice rough and serious. He had a large hand wrapped around his sword and kept an eye on Lyarra and stood beside Princess Daenerys. It was like he was ready to leap to protect his princess, even though there was no threat from the servant of the Many Faced God.

“Only a light hearted jest, ser. Nothing more.” She gazed at her husband who seemed to found refuge in his cup. “If my beloved husband dared try a thing, he could just very well wake the dragon.” She barked a laugh before her tone went serious. “I’m afraid you haven’t introduced yourself to my companions yet.”

The girl nodded. “My name is Lyarra Snow, or that was before joining the Many Faced God.”

Aegon flinched, his pretty eyes flickering for a moment. “You’re an assassin? He looked her down, then back up again. He seemed surprised. “Y-you . . . a girl.”

_Glad you realise, my prince. Otherwise I might suspect you think me as a boy_. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that happened. “I am.”

“But why?”

Was this really the prince she heard so highly of? He seemed like a fool.

“There are many questions you can ask at a later date,” his wife was quick to interject. “They can wait. The Iron Throne can not, not any more. We have an assassin here, one who will provide us with three kills, anyone we desire. If the stories are true, the House of Black and White are among the best.”

“So best make them count,” Ser Jorah spoke out. “There are many who want your heads, but there are certain deaths that will be more beneficial than others.”

“An assassin.” The prince bristled. “That’s dishonourable and sending a girl into battle . . . one so young.”

His wife signed. "We're going to be king and queen, Egg. Sometimes we have to do what is needed, even if can be considered wrong. We need to think practically. These aren't the stories."

"Daenerys . . ." 

"We did so with the dragons. We paid the cost, and look what we got outside." 

Ser Jorah turned to the prince. “As dishonourable as attacking Slaver’s Bay? Sending men to infiltrate their cities and open the gates? Letting the entire region fall to Volantis. Dishonourable as what happened at the Battle near Bronzegate? Would you take one life, to save hundreds, thousands?”

Prince Aegon grinded his teeth and ran his hand through his hair. “They was different, the both of them. The Ghiscari were slavers. At Bronzegate I didn’t order the execution. That was Jon Connington commanding against my orders. This here is different . . .”

“It is said that only a weak leader tolerates his men being insubordinate,” spoke the Dragonseed underneath his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear. When he saw people were listening, his voice grew. “If that happened to me, I would have executed him on the spot, or at least give him a flogging of a lifetime. Though I’ll admit that impressed by his victory and I would have done something similar in his place.”

Aegon ignored the sellsword’s words, but Arya saw his anger for a brief moment. “Jon . . . he’s like a father to me. I wouldn’t, I  _couldn’t_ ,” Aegon Targaryen held onto the table. “He disobeyed and that set a bad precedent, I know. But I can't. I owe him my life.”

“What about the time when he slapped you, my prince?” the captain asked, rising an eyebrow.

He flinched before giving the sellsword a seething look that demanded he held his tongue. The black haired man didn't look the slightest perturbed.

“Slapped?” Daenerys asked, shocked. “Jon slapped you?”

“Aye,” the prince spoke through clinched teeth. He couldn't sound more bitter. “After you left Ghiscar. I mentioned my father. What else can cause such a reaction?”

“Letting your subordinates both assault and treat you like a child. Pathetic,” mumbled the sellsword, this time soft enough so neither Targaryen could hear. Lyarra was sure she wasn’t meant to hear either, but Braavos taught her to listen.

“He slapped you.” Daenerys’ face tightened in fury. “When I see him, I’m going to have some choice words with our Lord Hand, I can say that much. Perhaps more . . . I won’t let anyone treat my family like that.” The prince seemed to shrink at those words. 

Ser Jorah leaned on the table and stared down at the various maps of Westeros. There were tiny colourful flags that only could be where the armies were supposed to be, as well as the various castles under Targaryen occupation. “He overstepped himself, I believe, Your Graces. Should you fly to him, I recommend you keep it private. But I say we’re going off topic. There are much more pressing matters.”

“Of course,” Daenerys Targaryen replied, her eyes going across the table then at Lyarra. “Please put your thoughts forward, all of you.”

Lyarra was sure she wasn’t included and it seemed the prince had distanced himself from the conversation, instead staring down at the liquid in his cup.

Valarr snickered and turned to the dragon princess. “Regardless of past actions, or what is considered right and honourable, I recommend using the assassin. She maybe a girl, but that can simply make infiltration easier. Who would suspect her? And sometimes a lone blade is better than a few thousand. Much cleaner too and with a lower cost of life and resources.” The captain leaned back, smiling casually. “I know a few targets, should you wish to know. Ones I greatly recommend.”

“What targets?” Princess Daenerys asked, turning to him. “Who would you recommend?”

“A few but some should be given priority, princess. You only have three kills. Once those are gone, this girl will return to Braavos.” He shot Lyarra a look. “I for one believe that the enemies nearby should be spared her blade.”

“Nearby enemies spared?” Ser Jorah looked confused. “The boy king and his mother are in King’s Landing, under the protection of an army and strong walls. They reside in Maegor’s Holdfast, a castle within a castle. It would be a hard time to get to them.”

“A tough nut to crack, I agree. But Lord Connington is already heading there with the Golden Company. We have my army, five thousand Unsullied, and the Dornish host of fifteen yet to arrive. Not to mention the others who will bend their knees and go under the Targaryen banner. Three kills only, so we better make them count. I for one believe there are enemies whose removal can make retaking the Seven Kingdoms easier, in the long run.”

“Like?” Aegon asked grudgingly.

“Anyone with eyes can easy see that the golden queen is fucking everything up. We heard what happened. In her striking wit, she created an army that should by all rights absolutely despise her. Said army is inside the walls, armed and armoured, with the support of the common people who also hate her. She is no threat to us, nor her spawn. But there are others who are more dangerous, further away and strengthening their position. By the time we deal with them, their position is fortified and be all the harder to remove.”

Lyarra bit her lip, feeling a tightening in her belly.

The exiled knight and slaver of Bear Island glanced at his two masters before his dark eyes settled on the sellsword captain. “Like whom?”

“Martyn Lannister.”

“Who?” Aegon demanded, sounding surprised.

“A boy. Last of Ser Kevan’s brood besides Lancel who’s said to be a part of the Warrior’s Sons under the command of the High Septon. It’ll disrupt Lannister succession of Casterly Rock, with Tyrek Lannister missing. If anything happens to the boy and King’s Landing falls, the Westerlands will have no clear leadership. If we don’t, they can unite under the boy and he’ll be declared Lord of the Rock, maybe even king. You can’t have that. You need the Westerlands. Casterly Rock’s formidable enough for Queen Visenya Targaryen to question about taking it by storm. The only way is by a long drawn-out siege and that’ll be dangerous, especially during winter and being on the west coast means you can’t easily resupply with your fleet. The only way you can supply an army going west is to march through the Riverlands which are said to be swarming with bandits and Freys who by enlarge have declared for the boy king.”

Prince Aegon looked both stunned and uncomfortable at the same time. “How do you know all this?”

He simply shrugged his shoulders. “I like keeping in touch. Varys and the Golden Company aren’t the only ones who have spy networks. I’m no fool, I listen to news and research my enemies. Both of you need to remember that knowledge is power,” He then turned to Daenerys, smiling that same confident smile. “What do you say? Weaken the Westerlands and put our your puppet in charge?”

“You’re talking about killing a child,” she frowned and her dark purple eyes stared at the sellsword. “He may very well be a—”

“A Lannister. A soldier.” Valarr’s voice was as cold as winter. “That boy fought at the battle of Oxcross against the Robb Stark, and was captured. Though to call it a battle would be incorrect, a slaughter would be more accurate terminology. Regardless of that fact, the Lannister was captured and later ransomed and sent back. He has fought in war and has killed. He is no child, Your Grace.”

Daenerys looked down. “Lannister . . . I promised to spare his family . . . his nephew and niece. I'm sure Martyn would number among that group.”

“Princess, he is not to be trusted,” injected Ser Jorah Mormont. “The Imp is a Lannister and one who killed his own family. Kinslayers are not to be trusted and neither are those who killed the kings they swore to serve. He may have killed an enemy, but you can’t trust him on precedent. He has proven a willingness to betray his liege lord, which very much could be you later on. To kill the Imp would be safest route.”

“But only when he’s been useful,” Valarr smirked. “Why throw away a tool when it’s still got some use left?” He chuckled, took a sip of wine, savoured, then continued. “Whether you agree or not, it must be said that the people despise him, the lords of the Westerlands especially. The Imp killed a king of Lannister blood, and the Lord Paramount of the land. If not us, I expect the dwarf to die from some other way. Likely poison or to suffer a fatal accident.”

“I rather not talk about this,” spoke Aegon Targaryen as he pressed the rim of his cup against his lip. “What you speak is dishonourable and diabolical.” He shook his head, grumbling, “Kill an boy to cause further disruption to an already divided continent. I won't agree to it.”

Daenerys’ face tightened in concentration, ignoring Aegon. “What happens if we do, captain? What happens if we kill this Lannister?”

“The Westerlands will just have to accept Tyrion’s rule. Unless they call upon a minor branch or a woman, they have no true alternative. When they bend the knee, the dwarf can meet his end and the realm will rejoice. Before the body is even cold we will have a more desirable replacement, one that can be moulded into one loyal to the crown and extension, yourselves.”

The prince’s eyes flickered and his gaze went upon the table. “He is only a dwarf. Even less than that – he was the son of the man who killed my sister and mother. I won’t feel grief when he’s gone.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but held his tongue, though he didn’t look happy for it.

Princess Daenerys Targaryen sighed and looked at Lyarra Snow who watched the conversation but didn’t say anything. It was not her place to speak so all she could do was listen.  _Martyn Lannister_ , Arya thought. It had to be one of Tywin Lannister’s nephews from one of his brothers. She didn’t know what to feel about it. They were Lannisters and if the sellsword was correct, the boy had spilled the blood of her countrymen, wolves and trout’s and their bannermen. But he would be young as well and may have done nothing to earn his fate. Although Arya wanted to see Cersei Lannister fall, she knew the Targaryens were going to do that themselves. 

Daenerys pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled and looked down at her. “Do you have any qualms?” Lyarra shook her head. “Then do it.” The words were stiff. “Go to Casterly Rock and deal with Martyn Lannister. Return when you're done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.  
> I personally find it quite amusing that both Aegon and Dany have Arya right under their nose and not even know it. The next chapter will be Tyrion's POV.


	34. Tyrion

He woke up to the light of dawn.

Tyrion rubbed his crusted eyes and stared up at the ceiling beautifully painted with huntsmen and prancing stags. He had that dream again, being back in the battle of the Blackwater among the smoke and death and wildfire. He followed the same steps, the same trials and meeting the same fate of Ser Mandon Moore slashing his nose off with a silver sword lit up with green flame. Just the memory returned the ache of when he laid unconscious after the battle.  _Where they took my credit, beloved sister and father of mine._

Servants must have already because the curtains were wide open. Though little more than a prisoner in all but name, Tyrion’s cell was richly furnished. There was a bed stuffed with goose down, fruit bowls and wine, shelves crowded with books and scrolls Haldon had given him. Most were messages of troop movements, history of the seven kingdoms, family histories and messages from the beloved outgoing Jon Connington, the future Hand.

Sitting up and letting his covers pool, the air was cold against his exposed skin. Lannister scratched the scar on his nose that itched furiously—or half a nose. It must have been boredom, for that was when the irritation was its worst. He climbed down from the steep bed and the hide carpet was soft underfoot. It had once been a bear, Tyrion was sure.

Just as Tyrion Lannister put on a tunic that looked like it had been made for a child, there was a knock on the door before walked in a servant girl, with olive skin, black hair and large black eyes. For the briefest moment she gawked at him, before remembering who he was and stared down at the floor. “May I be of service, my lord?”

_My lord_. He liked the words being said to him, it almost made him forgive her for staring at him the way she did. But what lord was he? It was an empty title. He had been exiled and forced to return, as well as being a prisoner to other exiles.  _A little prize to follow them wherever they desire and answer their questions_. They did have many questions, and it amused Tyrion when they did ask them. Both Targaryens had more than enough pride and the fact of asking one like himself clearly embarrassed them. “Yes, I have a few things I desire of you.” He didn’t have a woman since the one in Illyrio’s manse and there were many nights he'd woken up hard as a rock. Instead he replied, “Wine, much of it, and food to break my fast.” Wine was the best way to start the day, and having more throughout it only made it better. It made the days of dull work just fly by.

The serving girl laid out fresh clothes. Some were red, some were decorated with gold, others were black but none of them were for a Lannister _. I suppose I need to find myself a tailor_. The old clothes that Illyrio given him were old, used and made for children. The clothes before him were also children’s clothes as well, not that he expected Storm’s End to have a resident dwarf. One of the doublets even had the stag of House Baratheon. Tyrion rose an eyebrow at the girl for failing to check that. He doubted the Targaryens would like seeing him wear that . . . or a Lannister lion. Their relationship was an alliance of convenience, and a very grudging one at that.

After he dressed, another entered with a plate of blood sausages, bread fried in bacon fat, fish crisped in breadcrumbs, three boiled eggs, and a barley and venison stew that warmed his insides. Not to mention a bottle of Arbor wine from the cellars. It was a hearty enough meal to start a long and likely tedious day. From the servant’s words, it seemed that the Targaryens wanted him to finally leave the cell that was his home.  _Sent to Essos in a box, travelled through the Valyrian roads in a comfy but slow carriage with a man who shat as much as he ate, only to become a prisoner again and then shipped to Westeros in a slightly smaller box_. Not the future he ever expected in his life, nor did he believe he would encounter three dragons and two riders who forced him to sing to their tunes.  _I’ll sing your song, but on my terms_.

After he had his fill, and some more wine, Tyrion Lannister waddled through the halls of Storm’s End where people gave him harsh glances. He didn’t travel alone, four Unsullied escorted him, two in front and two behind like he would even consider running away.  _If I did, they’ll catch me at the end of their spears_. It wasn’t an experience he wished to have. The clothes he wore looked like they had barely been worn, a black doublet somehow not blessed to be adorned with a stag. It was tight around the chest, stiff and musty, but it was the best there was.

One guard waited outside the chamber. The same Kingsguard that stood behind Daenerys Targaryen when she visited. A brawny man, with a shaggy beard and a shock of orange hair. He wore the white cloak of the kingsguard and its armour. A peasant turned kingsguard. _I’m sure the lords are just jumping with joy at this revelation_. They didn’t like upstarts.

“Imp,” the large man said.

“Duck,” Tyrion replied.

The kingsguard grinned. “They finally let your out your cage, have they?”

“No, I just used my silver tongue to persuade some Unsullied to let me out for a little walk.” Not like he could run away. Who would accept him besides the Night’s Watch?

“Golden tongue. You are a Lannister after all.”

“Of course, I don’t want to undersell myself. Though my father would just love to disagree with your statement, if he still lived.”  _Mayhaps when I die, I can ask for a crossbow so I can thank the father above just as I thanked the father below_. “Can I enter? I do believe they want me.”

“Of course, Lannister.”

When the Unsullied deposited him in the chamber, the dwarf examined the makeshift council before him.

The lords present were predictable. Lord Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove, clean-shaven, stout and wearing the colours of his house. Tyrion Lannister wasn’t surprised by Rowan switching sides. He did get angry during the small council meeting at the deaths of Elia’s children.  _Only to find out the boy survived and married his sweet aunt_. A good idea to prove doubters of his claim, especially with Daenerys’ own fate being a disappearance of marrying a Tyroshi sellsword’s son named Griffin, as well as being the first dragon rider in more than a hundred years. Whether the boy could mount one was still a matter of debate. There was the half-chained maester named Haldon who unlike many maesters, took a side despite the oaths . . .  _well, he is only half a maester so he can’t be impartial_. The man had remained in the background, providing logistics and sending messages as maesters tended to do. There was the Unsullied called Greyworm who wore the black cloak like the Targaryen soldiers of old, though underneath he wore a simple black tunic and padded trousers. The eunuch was conversing with Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, another defector who had switched sides more than some houses.  _Once served House Targaryen, then switched to Baratheon only to switch to Targaryen again._  If Stannis returned, Tyrion wondered if Ser Barristan would turn his cloak again, perhaps for the final time. Then there was Ser Jorah, the Northman who was exiled by Lord Eddard Stark for selling slaves to some Tyroshi. Likely a pardon and to reinstate his lordship was his payment. Though Tyrion wondered how the North was going to be conquered, it was after all, a vast expansive of frozen wilderness.  _Mayhaps they’ll wait for winter to end before making their move_. It would be suicide otherwise. If the war in the North was as savage as the Riverlands, all the Targaryens likely had to do was wait before their enemy was too weakened to resist their advance. Looking around, most of the original commanders of the Targaryens had gone off to war. In many ways, Tyrion was thankful. Lord Jon Connington with his pale blue eyes was too much like Lord Tywin for Tyrion’s comfort.  _I killed my father only for him to return to life_ , he had thought when the two of them first met. Thinking about that did make Tyrion wonder just how they  _did_  take the castle that had resisted all armies throughout history. The Lannister did have a few sneaking suspicions it was underhanded to say the least.

The other lords scrambled for seats, those of lesser standing within the Stormlands would be kicked out without hesitation should more powerful actors appear and take their place. There were also pirates like Aurane Waters who had bragged about stealing the royal fleet of Kingslanding as well as others who had loaned their ships out. Most, Tyrion assumed, were doing it only for chance to pillage the divided and weakened Westeros, while others seemed to be interested in lordships. Aurane certainly seemed interested with his nephew’s domain.

There was also sellswords like the one who called himself Dragonseed. The sellsword was busy making japes, laughing and carousing. Tyrion thought the name was humorous. That was a title given to bastards of House Targaryen or Veleryon, something the man himself was not. But between all of them, Tyrion had a feeling it was the sellsword who was the most dangerous man in the room. It was the kind of face characters like Varys and Littlefinger had – a face that hid most and eyes that missed little.  _New players to the game. It changed as I laid in a chest of wine and slept in a cell_. At least life won’t be dull with all the new faces playing by new rules.

When they saw him, the lords were courteous enough, calling him “Lord Tyrion.” But he knew they were uncomfortable to look at him. Lord Rowen especially, who’s face shouted, “kinslayer, kingslayer.”

It was the sellsword captain who was the warmest as he clasped his hand with a hold like iron. “I heard stories about you, Lord Tyrion of House Lannister, future lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands.” He smiled, but not the kind any sane person would trust. “I heard your achievements at the Battle of the Blackwater, something I can very well respect. The wildfire, the chain, you deserve credit for what you achieved, even if your song was left unsung.”

_Good, because few people do. I only saved the city and stopped it from being butchered and pillaged, yet I’m the one who did wrong_. Father awarded him with Sansa Stark, a girl who couldn’t stand him.  _Tysha was the only woman who ever loved me_. Sansa, Shae and the many whores were all false.  _Where do whores go?_  Singers declared Joffrey a valiant war hero when he had fled to the Red Keep with his tail between his legs. The Tyrells took the credit for the battle, as did Renly’s ghost. They had their exploits sung and praised and received queenship for it. Tyrion Lannister found it hard not to feel bitter, and thanked the dark-haired man, the sellsword gave a nod and turned back to some weak-minded lords who were dazzled with false words. Few came to speak with Tyrion, the lords continued with their own conversations.

Ashara Dayne spoke to Lord Rowen and Princess Arianne about her so-called disappearance and suicide, speaking oh so charmingly to soften the sombre lord with smiles and with a few jests, while the crown princess of Dorne was regaled with her aunt’s story. Tyrion laid claim to the seat opposite the lady. He heard stories of Ashara Dayne’s beauty, the star of Dorne. Before him, she looked more handsome then beautiful.  _A shame beauty doesn’t last_. Even so, she did carry an air of dignity around her and her eyes – though not the striking haunting purple eyes he had been told of – did sparkle with laughter when Tyrion butted in with a jest.  _Grief eats at the body_. Though Tyrion doubted anyone would understand looking at him, he was never comely to begin with – a stunted dwarf now with half a nose and a massive scar. Once more, he gave it a scratch.

It was shortly after that Targaryen walked the room. The prince with rubies crusting a black iron chain around his neck and the princess with a dragon shaped torc.  _The pretty prince and the even prettier princess_. Both made a handsome couple, their clothes black and red, their silver hair and purple eyes highlighting their Valyrian blood. They both had the looks and backstory that would be loved by the storytellers for generations to come. Tyrion had laughed at Magister Illyrio’s words on the ship to Myr.  _The lost prince and princess returning from death only to return to Westeros in one of its greatest moments of need_. It was like a few of the stories he heard in his childhood, of a leader to unite a fractured realm. Though those stories didn’t have the heroes causing the very problems they would aim to resolve. The lords were ambitious and the smallfolk fickle, more than likely forget the Targaryens army was made up of sellswords who pillaged as all armies did, if somewhat more effectively than the peasant levies of Westeros.  _History written by the winners_.

Everyone that had took a seat, stood at the master’s entrance. Both Targaryens greeted each in turn, speaking quiet words and jests as well as clasping the hands of all, except Tyrion who was ignored like he didn’t exist.  _What a shame, I thought dragons loved gold and no one has more gold then a Lannister_. Though he himself barely had a copper to his name, so that could be the cause for it. Prince Aegon sat himself at the head of the long table, his wife opposite him.  _At least he’ll have something comely to look at. A shame that the lady opposite me doesn’t have that privilege_.

“I can see the Lord Lannister has made it here,” spoke one lord, with a flash of black hair streamed with silver, a hook nose and a scar that almost put Tyrion’s to shame but sadly failed. He shot him with a harsh look. It couldn’t come near to compete with his father and Tyrion simply met that stare with his own. The black-haired lord, unsettled, looked away. “May I ask His Grace why?”

“He’s useful to our invasion,” spoke the Dragonseed, dark eyes sparkling as he leaned lazily on his chair. His tone was casual and he looked down at his fingers, seeming to think picking the filth from underneath was worth his attention. “Granted he isn’t much to look at, but they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Though if he was, and you look at the pages, you can see he’s done a few impressive things. The Battle of Blackwater and the Battle of the Green Fork. He fought with the soldiers in both of them, and with his condition, it’s admirable. Even capturing a few knights from what I heard.” Tyrion gazed at him, unfamiliar with such praise. “Not only that, he knows the ins and outs of the court, more so then both you dragons, I’m afraid to say.”

“But we’ll learn,” spoke Daenerys Targaryen, sharply. She eyed Tyrion with dark, stern purple eyes. Her entire posture was tight when she spoke with the lion. Why? He was only the brother of the man who killed her father and sat on the throne as her niece and good-sister were killed a few rooms away. “How hard can it be to learn the court?”

Those words almost made him laugh.  _Oh, you are both as naïve as I expected_. Tyrion didn’t expect anything less than a group that never experienced the court, instead following their fellowship around Essos.  _An interesting group_ , he considered. A maester with only half a chain, an exiled lord, a lady turned septa, and a blacksmith turned knight. Not to mention a silver-haired princess and prince. They had been prepared for this for a long time. But it was the equivalent to reading about how to swim rather than actually doing it. Daenerys spoke a good game that one time Tyrion Lannister was in a cell, with a massive guard in a white cloak standing behind her as if Tyrion was about to strangle her like a certain whore.  _It’s easier to act in control while you have all the cards_. Tyrion’s eyes gazed at the various lords, sellswords and pirates.  _You may not hold all the cards at the end of this, my dear, if you ever held them at all._ “I would certainly hope so. I would love to see the realm in peace, under stable leadership after so long and after such hardship.”  _My sister always had it in her to make the realm unstable, it’s a gift of hers_. Especially if Jaime were nearby. In truth, Tyrion doubted the Targaryens would rule easily, the realm was simply too much in a mess _. Thank your dear Varys and Illyrio for it_. It would only get worse as well.

“I won’t deny I wish for a stable realm,” spoke the prince. “Enough blood has been spilled. So best for this war to end as quickly as possible.”

The prince was just beginning to grow facial hair in the form of a pale moustache. Silver hair brushed his shoulders and shone beside the torches. His eyelashes were as long as any woman’s.  _He just has to look at any woman and smile, he could have them all_. From the way his wife looked at him, that did certainly seem to be the case.

“Many would desire that,” said Ser Jorah. “There has been enough war and the land yearns for peace. With the winter, you best make the war conclude quickly. It will spread further south and your supplies from Essos are limited. You need supplies from the mainland. Never mind saying will be harder to keep peace, especially with all that has happened.”

“Only afterwards, I hope,” the Dragonseed spoke, “destabilising the realm before creating a new one atop the ashes.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Or that was what I’ll do, unless you want to keep the status quo.”

Haldon nodded. “That settlement has got its advantages, even if the words themselves are crude. If you want the change you desire, radical change. It would be a safer alternative for the long run. Means less resistance in the long term.”

Princess Daenerys eyed him. “Westeros will change, for the better. There are many things in Westeros that are obsolete and need to change. We have learned in Essos that the world is moving forward and that our homeland isn’t. We both mean to change that.” Tyrion rose an eyebrow. “But that can be spoken about later, after the war is won the realm can breathe freely.” She turned Tyrion, her face as expressionless as when she visited him in his cell. “It is said that an army marches on its stomach, and to start and win a war it takes three things, coin, coin and even more coin. Whilst the campaign is going on and with Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos being occupied, we require a Master of Coin though this position is only temporarily. Until the day of his arrival, you will be our Master of Coin, Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“Master of Coin? What an honour,” Tyrion replied, putting his hands on the table. “Though only a temporary one if the Magister is taking it away when this war is done, eh.” From the looks that the native lords gave, they weren’t happy with the idea of a foreigner sitting the small council.

Aegon nodded. “He is a trusted friend of House Targaryen. One that rose from the bottom to the top. A deed worthy of respect and shows a cunning that is very sorely needed in these uncertain times.”

_Oh the cheesemonger. How could I forget._  He was one of the largest men Tyrion Lannister has the misfortune to meet. He was like a sea cow washed up on land, sprouted legs and decided to eat whatever appeared before him with as much grace as a slobbering dog. While Tyrion trusted the cheesemonger as far as he throw him, the Targaryens seemed to think different, trusting their silver daughter to the profiteer's care. “I once served as Master of Coin, made into one by my father.” A horrid downgrade from hand of the king and he got blamed for all my father’s ideas, like the so-called dwarf’s penny: Tywin’s tax on brothels in King’s Landing.  _If they didn’t hate me enough._

The prince’s eyes flickered. “Then I’m sure you’ve got experience in the matter. Please feel free to look through the ledgers, more so when we’re in King’s Landing. We’re told the royal coffers are empty.”

“Can’t remember, but seeing as the sellsword companies haven’t turned on you, I doubt my sister paid them.”  _Perhaps she should just offer her cunt, it was the only good thing about her_.

“We have honour, dwarf,” the sellsword declared. “Besides, turning against dragon riders would be bad for us, and my officers will be annoyed that I may have sent them to their deaths. As long as the money keeps following, you’ll have guarantee of my men’s loyalty, Targaryens.”

“Thanks for the confirmation, ser,” the prince said, grimacing at the dark-haired man. “I always knew you had our best interests at heart.”

Like he didn’t realise the sarcasm, the man just nodded like it was a complement. “I know. My parents always said I was tender-hearted as a child.” He smiled a thin smile and turned to Tyrion. “I hope you were a good Master of Coin. Two sellsword companies can be quite expensive. I certainly hope you can find a way to pay for it.”

_How? Is the loot from Slaver’s Bay drying up?_  He pondered on that.  _If I need to fill the dragon’s gold pile, I could ring some coin from the nobility_. Tyrion Lannister remembered his father’s words, “Anyone who lived modesty had to be saving money, therefor they could afford to pay taxes, whereas anyone who lived extravagantly obviously were rich and therefore could afford paying taxes.” Tyrion planned something similar. He’ll be hated, sure, but he was hated enough anyway.  _What’s to stop them from hating me a little more?_

The prince clapped his hands together, the sound was sharp and made everyone turn to him. “With the position of Master of Coin dealt with, we can now talk about the war proper.”

“Good to know,” the Dragonseed spoke out in his casual tone. “While I love the feel of coin, talking about it dulls me, a lot.”

“Then you are fortunate we’re talking about something else,” spoke Lord Mathis Rowan. “May I ask what your plan is, my prince?”

“Prince,” grumbled another lord, one in a doublet of red and blue. His face was soft and bearded, with dark brown hair brushed his shoulders in brown curls. “Your Grace, shouldn’t it be better to declare yourself a king, not a mere prince?”

His wife shook her head. “No, my lord. Neither me nor my husband will be crowned as King and Queen of this or that. We’ll both be crowned in King’s Landing, by the High Septon himself, before the light of the Seven.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but smirk.  _Cunning. Three dragons, Aegon the Conquerors sword and be crowned by the High Septon himself, before the grace of the gods by their avatar_. That would only add to their legitimacy in the eyes of Westeros. Turning to Aegon, Tyrion thought,  _and that boy needs it_.

“I am happy you both have considered it,” Lady Ashara spoke out. She had a crystal around her neck, very much like a septa. “To do so will show the people the Seven side with you. With the current news of the faith, his High Holiness and the faith militant resurfacing after so long, it would be in both your self-interest.”

“Of course they do,” the prince said with a smugly self-satisfied smirk on his face that tempted Tyrion to throw a cup at him. “Me and Daenerys are the rightful king and queen, of course the Seven will side with us.”

_Divide right of kings_ , Tyrion Lannister thought bitterly as a serving girl refilled his cup.  _It mattered little when Robert and Joffrey died. The Seven didn’t care throughout history, why should they care now? At most it was used to quiet the smallfolk who, if the stories were correct, wanted a godly king_. Though Tyrion wondered if they both were. Arrogant though, they were defiantly that.  _If they think everything will just fall into their hands they are wrong, so very wrong_. It may very well cause their defeat.

“But best not get cocky, nephew. We still have to meet his High Holiness and he is the avatar of the gods.”

“Not to mention having an army within the walls,” Haldon hastily interjected. “The Poor Fellows and the Warrior’s Sons. Peasants and knights, respectively. Though I’d suspect many of the peasants are veterans from this war, and equipped in the same way as standard soldiery. Not to mention them long having a reputation of fighting zealously during the war against Maegor and Aenys Targaryen. Though whether they can compare to their forebears is a matter of debate.”

The prince nodded at his tutor and shot his wife a dazzling smile. “Of course, my dear. Sometimes I forget myself. We will speak of King’s Landing soon, but first may I ask about the operation and our own numbers.”

Crown princess Arianne looked at them, took a delicate sip of her wine before speaking. “Word is that my younger brother is marching up, with my husband. He’ll be in Storm’s End within a few days, I hope. Though it may take longer. The weather is treacherous and the rains and mud will likely slow them down. But fear not. My people will fight the hardest. They’ve been craving blood for eight-and-ten years. It's a shame that I need to retire back to Dorne because of father's ailment.”

Aegon nodded. "Of course, cousin. We thank you for what you've done for us."

“And your blood will be sated, I ensure you. Many people here have reason to,” replied Daenerys Targaryen. “But may I ask about our enemies. I may be a young girl and unused to the ways of war, but I realise knowing about our advisories will be useful in order to deal with them. Knowledge is power after all.”

“Wise words, princess,” acknowledged the half-maester. “The Lannister’s and their Tyrell allies have fallen back to King’s Landing in the wake of the victory as well as the Lord Randyll Tarly bending the knee to Jon Connington, handing over command of twenty thousand men he collected from around Westeros.”

Tyrion expected Tarly to bend the knee, but even then, he was surprised by it. The Lord of Horn Hill was a proud man and had served House Tyrell faithfully, but it seemed even a prized dog would bite its owner hand if mistreated.  _Even more men join the dragons_. Those numbers seemed to have almost doubled the Targaryen host.  _With men of dubious loyalty_.

The maester pulled out a scroll from his sleeve and passed it to them. “Not only that, these are the various houses that have decided to join our campaign. Many are our supporters within the Reach, some unbloodied, some not. There are also others within the Crownlands of course and will likely meet up with Lord Connington.”

Neither Aegon nor Daenerys could seem to keep a straight face. Both were beaming with the news. Why wouldn’t they? With that news, the path to King’s Landing was open.

“But what about the Reach and the Riverlands,” asked Ser Barristan. “Surely there are more fighting going on.”

Arianne nodded. “While one army is heading towards us, my father has sent another army under the command of my cousin, Obara. They’re going to make inroads in the Reach. They’ll take the southern holdings and divide the Tyrell army.”

_And leaving them divided against the Ironborn_ , Tyrion finished. After the Blackwater, Garlan had returned and now, both him and Willas Tyrell had levied a new army to deal with the Ironborn. Tyrion wondered how good they’ll face against two enemies.  _Especially if some of their bannermen switch to the dragons_.

Haldon cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t the Reach under attack from the Ironborn? I heard Euron Greyjoy reappeared and reportedly been sacking the coast, taking the Shield Islands and launching attacks against the Arbor. Not to mention Oldtown itself.”

Aurane Waters snickered. He was dressed splendidly in a sea-green doublet with a silver seahorse sewn with silver lace. He was handsome with silver-gold hair and grey-green eyes. There was a cleft in his chin. He was only a bastard of the house, but acted as the lord and would be if the Targaryens won. The island already had a lord, six year old Monterys Velaryon. “A minor distraction, I would say. I once served as Master of Ships. The Redwyne Fleet is speeding to liberate their holdings against the Ironborn and this self-declared king. The Redwynes have the largest and most powerful fleet, made of more than two hundred warships, and five times as many merchant vessels. They will win.”

It certainly seemed as such. Paxter Redwyne was a skilled admiral, from what Tyrion had heard, and with a large fleet. Euron Greyjoy, on the other hand, lost the battle of Fair Isle and left Westeros with his tail between his legs. But since his return, the pirate-lord did score some easy victories.  _Maybe he can resist the Tyrell fleet for just long enough_. Even with Aurane stealing the royal fleet and with pirates, the Targaryens would be crushed at sea by Paxter and be cut from their supply lines in Essos.

In his musing, Tyrion missed the talks about the North, with Stannis’ attack on the Boltons and Freys near Winterfell. The words were easily dismissed and ignored. When Lord Rowan finally asked about the plan for King’s Landing, the prince smiled charmingly and turned to him. “Please forgive me, my lord. Yes, I do have a plan to take King’s Landing and that’s learning from history.”

He turned to Tyrion and that smile flickered before dying. “You commanded the city during Stannis’ attack. I’m sure you, my lord, can enlighten us about the capital and what you did. I aim to do something similar.”

“Attack by sea, Prince Aegon?”

“Both me and my beloved wife are looking to Dragonstone, our ancestral home. It’ll be returned to the lawful ownership of House Targaryen after being soiled for so long. We’ll launch an amphibious attack upon the island with a detachment of sellswords. Lord Waters and Cossomo will take us there. After the castle and surrounding islands are taken, we’ll move against the capital from all sides.” Turning to the Dragonseed, he said, “I’m sure you can spare some men, captain?”

“Of course, my prince. I’ll send you my best men under the command of Ternesio Ahrerris. He’s a skilled soldier, respected and will know what to do. I trust him as if he were my own brother.”

Daenerys gave a nod. “Of course, captain.” She looked at their two main captains of the fleet. “Are you both capable?”

The bastard of Driftmark smiled. “Your will be done, princess. I know Driftwood, Dragonstone and its surrounding islands like the back of my hand. There is no passage unknown to me. It’ll be flying the dragon banner soon enough.”

The other pirate-lord meanwhile only pursed his lips. He was richly dressed in a fabulous robe of myrish silk, with a large beard. “It will be done. My men need something to do. Going to and fro with shipments of food and men is awfully dull. I came to pillage and loot this savage backwater, not simply ferry like a mere trader. Easy coin, yes, but a bore.”

“War is war, captain,” Daenerys said. “You may serve us as privateers, but not now.” Turning to the commander of their Unsullied, she continued, “I’m sure Greyworm can spare a few black cloaks as well.” The eunuch bowed his head in confirmation. “Then perhaps our future Lord of Casterly Rock can explain to us the Battle of the Blackwater?”

A dark-haired lord turned to Tyrion with a look of contempt. “Leave proper knights with the sword, copper counter. Like a dwarf, you’ll be satisfied with counting coins.” He then turned to Prince Aegon. “Though I’ll keep an eye on this one, my prince. All decent men know a dwarf is not to be trusted. He’ll lay you both into a trap.”

“That may be the proper advice, but Lord Tyrion has aided us, something I will not deny,” the prince said, sounding bored before he straightened in his seat. “If it wasn’t for his lordships council, we wouldn’t be standing here with any of lords.” He turned to his lord of Goldengrove and asked, “How many men do you have, my lord?”

“Two hundred, Your Grace. That is how many lords and knights that you’ve captured now serve you.”

_He captured? I doubt our precious prince would degrade himself with tying men up_. From what Tyrion heard, Prince Aegon didn’t participate in the taking of Storm’s End, only standing back to allow his lord hand to do the work.  _Taking a castle from Baratheons who just happen to pull out their swords after agreeing to guest rights._ It did raise a few questions.

“That is good. While me and Daenerys take a ship, you can lead the men up the Kingsroad.” He then turned to Tyrion and asked he tell them about King’s Landing, what he did in the battle and afterwards.

Tyrion agreed and told the Targaryens of the gold cloaks, the gate that was almost smashed and the wildfire his sister most likely had. Everyone looked disturbed at the mention of the green flame that exploded with the mildest heat and how it would turn King’s Landing into a powder keg should dragons be used within the city walls. Daenerys looked at her husband and said that dragons won’t be used case the city is ignited, something Aegon easy agreed to. Tyrion wouldn’t be there, being kept in Storm’s End with Haldon.  

The only person who didn’t look the mildest disturbed the black haired sellsword captain. Instead there was a glow in his eyes and he licked his lips. “Wildfire. I would love to get my hands on that substance. It’ll prove useful for any sieges we will found ourselves in. We should use all the weapons we have at our disposal.”

“A dangerous weapon,” was Haldon’s response. “Unstable and flammable. All attempts to harness it have been disastrous.”

“All but some,” the captain concluded. “I’m sure it can be useful in the wars to come. I will say that much. How are dragons acceptable if wildfire isn’t?” 

A part of Tyrion Lannister wondered if he should have kept that information to himself. Neither of the dragons liked him, nor did the rest of Westeros. He was only useful to them as long as he won them victories and if not . . . they weren’t like to hesitate to remove him for someone else.  _I need allies and fast_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Tyrion POV chapter. Hope it didn’t disappoint. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	35. The Snake within the Walls

The thing she hated most about King’s Landing was the smell.

The city was a horrid place for Nymeria as she walked through the cramped city streets. Behind her was an escort of four guards in mail armour hidden underneath thick wools and winter-cloaks. All her escort from Dorne were well-trained, battle-hardened and loyal. Out of the three hundred, almost half had been captured and killed when Cersei Lannister decided to turn on them. It was only thanks to the Spider they managed to escape the Red Keep and flee into the city proper, where they hid in safe houses and operated in the shadows.  

She had little faith in the Spider. If he  _did_  save Prince Aegon, he should have saved her cousin and aunt as well. “ _Be thankful that at least one survived rather than none_ ,” Doran had told her, though he seemed to have reservations on the matter.  _It doesn’t matter_. It was now common knowledge Prince Doran fully supported Aegon and Daenerys, and now the Dornish army was moving up the Boneway towards King’s Landing.  _And I’ll be in the middle of it, moving pieces and creating chaos_. That was why her uncle brought her and Tyene within the city walls.

Underneath her boots, the ground that had once been snow, had turned into sludge by the feet of thousands of people. Beggars lined the street, pleading for food and charity. There were old men, veterans from the war, while other were women and children with bony limbs and bloated bellies. At the news of dragons return, many more crowded the city, begging for protection within the walls. All it did was add further strain and unrest that worked for her and her men’s benefit. With the garrison and city watch busy, it allowed her Dornishmen to largely go unnoticed by the guards. They burnt buildings, stirred rebellion and attacked Lannister and Tyrell guards patrolling the streets. The queen was stepping up her attempts against them, but it didn’t help that many of the gold cloaks were corrupt and turned a blind eye.

“Shall we return, my lady?” asked one man with an accent of the Red Mountains. Many of her men were Stony Dornish, with the fair skin and hair of the Andal’s who inhabited Dorne before the coming of the Rhoynar. Anything  _too_  Dornish was sure to raise suspicions, especially with the Reachmen still within the walls and the general suspicion on her people. While they encouraged her to remain hidden, Nymeria couldn't. She couldn't hide while her men risked their lives. She gave messages to her officers and communed with Tyene who managed to get close to the High Sparrow.

“We will.” She had enough of the horrid city that swarmed with the scum of the earth: thieves, rapists and all unsavoury types. It was a far cry from the quiet of peaceful Dorne where she had always been around friends and family and those who supported her. Lady Nym sighed and felt the outlines of a knife. She had to be strong, her father named her after Princess Nymeria after all. She was trusted by her uncle for a very important mission and she could not fail him. Nor her aunt, niece, nor House Martell and Dorne. She couldn’t fail her father.

Nymeria Sand had accepted the task of her uncle with dignity, but was secretly delighted with being sent to the capital to crush the Lannister’s from within. She had expected to be in the small council as a spy, listening to the queen’s plans and subverting her rule with both words and knives in the dark. But that didn't go to plan. Cersei Lannister didn't trust them, especially not after what happened to that daughter of hers. As soon as the news came from the south, the lions pounced, forcing Lady Nym and her men into hiding

It was a slow climb up Visenya’s Hill. Smallfolk crowded the narrow winding street while nobles of all types rode atop horses or in litters. “Make way, clear the street,” a gold cloak shouted with a club in hand, but few listened to him and instead continued their day without a care. Most of the main streets might as well be forbidden to her. With the threat of siege, they were busy with soldiers, not to mention all the carriages that left the Alchemists Guild every early morning. A septon walked past, in a drab robe with the holy crystal on a lace around his thick neck. He was bald, didn’t wear shoes, and behind him trailed a group of novices and young septas, behind them were a flock of smallfolk. Visenya’s Hill was the Sparrow’s nest and it stank worse than the rest of the city.

Looking up Aegon’s hill, the Red Keep was in full view. Lannister and Baratheon banners were draped over the walls that were swarming with archers and newly constructed artillery. Within those strong walls, the boy king sat the Iron Throne. The child born from the family who killed her aunt, cousin and father.  _He’ll pay, all the Lannisters will. The queen will lose her daughter and son. She’ll watch as her entire world crumbles around her and beg for mercy at the end of a blade_.

They pushed through to the top of the hill and ahead loomed the Great Sept of Baelor with its magnificent domes and seven shining towers. The plaza was marble and made for aesthetics, but living on it was a sea of sparrows. All brown and ragged and unwashed. Hundreds of them camped in the plaza and more in the gardens, their campfires filled the air with smoke; it was all a far cry from the beauty Nymeria heard about. Tents and hovels made of sticks and mud and scrap were built atop what had once been pristine white marble as they huddled underneath the shelter provided by the sept. Beneath the Great Sept’s detailed doors were a line of Warrior’s Sons in silver armour and holding kite shields, their swords fitted with crystals. Beside the knights were holy warriors of common birth in boiled leather and mail, white surcoats sewn with a red seven pointed star. In their hands were swords but most favoured axes and spears and studded clubs.

As much as she hated the look of the chaos, she didn’t have the right to complain. Unlike most before her, Nymeria was given a room inside when she begged for sanctuary in the Great Sept. The High Sparrow listen to her pleas and welcomed her inside, in return she had to repent the sinful ways of the Dornish. She did so, grudgingly, but was fed, given a cell and fresh clothes, as well as protection from the golden queen. Though Nymeria was allowed to leave at her leisure, the High Septon only gave her protection within the sept’s walls. That was something she could deal with.

The crowd looked in her direction, but they didn’t look at her. Their eyes were hollow, their faces gaunt and all looked like they’ll eat whatever appeared in front of them. They were a hungry lot. In Dorne it was the responsibility for the lords to feed their poor, offering them bread and beer in times of famine and scarcity. Nymeria looked over at the statue of King Baelor the Blessed, the great marble statue was smiling serenely, but waist-deep in bones and skulls of the righteous who had been killed in the rebellion.  _Men, women and children. Silent Sisters, holy septons and septas. Raped, killed and used for the enjoyment of wolves, lions and stags_. Nymeria wondered if something similar was going to happen by the dragons hands. There were many vicious rumours coming from the south, though they conflicted with the words of Varys the Spider who was busy rallying the smallfolk and players within the city walls to the Targaryen side. So far it seemed that the Spider was winning, especially with his organisation of a puppet show of a stag that once brought peace before being cuckolded by lions that brought only misery and death. To the celebration of the children and a few of the adults watching, the lions were burnt by the dragons where peace was restored to the kingdom of the animals. Queen Cersei Lannister didn’t like that and ordered the puppeteers public execution. It didn’t kill off any thoughts of opposition, only enhancing it.

“They want revenge,” one soldier from High Heritage said in a soft voice. “They want vengeance for the faithful.”

“They want peace,” said another. “They want protection for the living, they pray to return home, for the winter to end and that the throne is once again protecting the pious. A king who does not protect their people is no king at all. Why would people want to serve one that is not a king?”

“Definitely not the fat boy king,” another man laughed, though it was tense around the sea of solemnness. Stories played throughout Flea Bottom that the boy king preferred to feast while his people starved. The little food that came in the city went straight to the garrison or the Red Keep, allowing the population to grow bitter at those who lived above.

As they pressed forward through the crowd, they were stopped at the doors by a guard with sloped shoulders, a broad chest and small brown eyes. “All are welcome in the House of the Seven, but your men must leave their sword belts, for it is a crime for weapons inside that are not in the hands of the faithful who gave their lives.”

Lady Nym gave a nod and ordered her men to hand their weapons to the Warrior’s Sons. It was standard procedure. They marched into the Sept, entering the Hall of Lamps where septons and septas were polishing the marble floor, on their hands and knees and covered with soap. Work was a form of prayer, the High Septon claimed and that even those who served the faith – regardless of birth – needed to be kept humble and work with their hands, just as the Smith willed. A few she recognised were of those who used the faith for their own ends, the ones that feasted and bedded, bribed and hoarded. They looked to have worked the hardest, with faces as red as beats and broken blisters on their skin. Since being put in charge, the High Sparrow had been busy cleaning the corruption that had been left to soil the faith. The septons of the Most Devout that were seen as less then pure was swiftly chastised. Those who bedded girls or boys in the brothels were stripped naked and paraded through the streets like the queen, those who used their influence for sin such as to deflower and soil girls of the faith were tied to poles for seven days and nights, each morning and afternoon they were served the scourge.

“Where is his High Holiness?” asked one of her guards, the one with sun-kissed skin and fair-brown hair.

His question was directed to a septa with wrinkled grey skin and with grey hair tied up in a bun. “In his sanctum.” She recognised Lady Nymeria Sand and her face curled like sour milk. She said nothing more and continued with her duties in silence.

Nymeria went to the audience chambers, her guards breaking off for the quarters underneath the Sept of Baelor, where the soldiers of the faith currently resided. She found him in a small seven-sided audience chamber. The room was sparse and plain, with bare stone walls, a handful of chairs, a prayer bench and an aged table. On the walls were the faces of the Seven, all staring at her and with eyes made of precious orbs of onyx, malachite, and yellow moonstone. Lady Nym wondered why he didn’t remove those eyes. The High Sparrow didn’t like the sight of gold or silver or precious stones, instead he encouraged everyone to live humbly just as the Seven-Pointed-Star encouraged. 

In the centre of the room he stood, the High Septon, the avatar of the Seven. He didn’t look like a man who led one of the most powerful organisations in Westeros. His High Holiness was a small, thin man with a hard face, eyes like mud, grey hair and skin wrinkled from age and a harsh life. He didn’t wear rich robes or elaborate crowns of gold and crystal, instead he wore a simple white tunic of rough wool that went down to his ankles. Nor did he wear shoes or sandals. Instead his feet were bare, hard and horny, thick with callus.  _He looks more like a begging brother then the High Septon_ , Lady Nym had thought when she first saw him.

The High Sparrow wasn’t the only one in the room. Beside him was the innocent face of her half-sister, Tyene Sand who nabbed a place right beside the High Sparrow whenever he wanted a girl’s opinion on anything, one to speak on the Maiden’s behalf. It helped that Tyene looked like the Maiden come to life, with her golden hair, innocent blue eyes and sweet smile. She was dressed in a dress of white and gold that only added to the image. Out of all of them, Tyene stood out the most. Beside her was a begging brother in filthy patched robes, a bowl around his neck on a leather thong and his feet were crusted with dirt. Lady Nym wondered how her sister could stand to be near him.

The last were a small group of knights. They formed a line behind the High Sparrow. Except one who stood on the High Septon’s side. Tall and thin with a solemn sad face. Ser Bonifer the Good, the new commander of the Warrior’s Sons, was armoured in the silver and white plate, with a rainbow cloak over his shoulders. If Nymeria was correct, Ser Bonifer Hasty once crowned Queen Rhaella Targaryen as his queen of love and beauty, offering the Targaryen his heart. It was only after her marriage that Bonifer the Good declared celibacy to serve the faith.  _It seems that the gods aren’t the only reason you could serve the dragon_ s.

Going down on her knees, Lady Nym kissed the High Sparrow’s hand as a sign of respect. The man looked at her like a stern father. “I am pleased to be before you, Your Holiness.”  _May the Father give me strength_. There was something about his eyes that intimidated her. They were brown like mud, but they seemed to look through into her soul and seemed to be judging like the Father Above.

“Rise, child. I see you’ve returned to the god’s house.” She nodded, keeping her lips sealed. “Will you pray with us?” There was no way she could deny and they did so, kneeling before the altar of the Father, the Mother, the Smith and Warrior, the Maid and the Crone, but not the Stranger. His High Holiness remained on his knees even after the prayer was said and done. She knew that he continued to pray and beside him were his knights. When he did finally get up, he smiled warmly. “Are you going to ask about the young dragons once more, my dear?”

The High Sparrow had not declared for the Targaryens, though he was getting evermore sympathetic to their cause. The Spider stood beside the leader of the faith, not like the brightly robed eunuch she heard about, instead he wore filthy robes and had a mouth full of rotten teeth. The eunuch carried on him an odour that put those outside to shame. It was certainly not lilacs. The look, the smell and the act of Varys the Mummer was enough for the High Septon to have him close. To his High Holiness, it wasn’t Varys, former Master of Whispers, it was a simple Begging Brother from the Riverlands that had not been corrupted by the luxuries and decadence of King’s Landing.

“It is indeed. I pray that you make the right decision.”

The man shook his head. “I pray that the Crone will light my way. These are troubling times for all of us.” The smile vanished immediately. “When bastards defile the throne of kings and when brother lays with sisters. When the holy and pious live in fear and the king does nothing to protect the very faith he swore to protect.”

“Your Holiness,” came the voice of the Varys the travelling beggar. It wasn’t high and effeminate with a giggle and a snicker, instead it was low and harsh. “I have heard many stories of the dragons of the south as I journeyed the roads. A pious prince and princess that has studied the mysteries of the faith by a holy septa that can recite passages from the Seven-Pointed-Star by heart. They know all the words, all the verbs and quotes, stories and songs.”

“Many nobles are taught the faith,” the High Sparrow said, reluctantly. “But few follow through with its sacred teachings.”

“Few care for the smallfolk,” the murmmer continued, his voice all grave and serious. “The Lannister’s don’t feed the hungry, nor shelter the vulnerable. If even half of what they say is true, the dragons do—”

“A dragon is a demon,” spoke up one knight.

“They were sent by the gods,” another cried, his voice full of emotion. “To right the wrongs and bring holy fire upon those who stand against the Seven.”

“Tree worshippers, and those who sleep with red demons,” continued one knight in a tunic made of human hair and with a sword with a crystal pommel. It was said that those crystals could dispel magic and all forms of glamour, or that was what her father and Sarella claimed. Of course they would hate them, the holy knights of old fought against infidels, witches, mages and monsters. Though a dragon was considered a monster they slayed, some before her believed they were sent by the Seven themselves, whether for good or bad.

The High Sparrow silenced them. All those knights spoke like they were from powerful houses, though Nymeria didn’t recognise the faces. “Ser Bonifer, you say nothing.”

“Your Holiness, I speak for all of us here when I say the Crone will light our way, and the Warrior will give strength to our arms. Whatever decision you choose, I will follow, for you were chosen by the Seven who are one.”

Nymeria looked at the man. Ever since Maegor’s laws had been re-enacted by the false-queen, the faith had been swarmed with men and women who desired to take up arms. The Lannister thought she could control the High Sparrow but she was wrong. The man had an army within the city walls, with the support of the smallfolk as well as many nobles who joined the Warrior’s Sons that now numbered more than three hundred. While the Poor Fellows were augmented by Ser Bonifer Hasty’s Holy Hundred.  _He can be persuaded to join my cousin’s side_ , she thought.  _For his love’s daughter and grandson_. It was unlikely he would desire to serve an adulterer who slept with her brother and a Tyrell queen who was more-than-likely to be excommunicated by the faith, thanks to Tyene’s words. 

The High Sparrow gave a nod in understanding. “I pray the Seven show me. The High Septon during the time of the Conqueror locked himself within the Starry Sept so none could disturb him as he sought wisdom. He prayed and fasted for seven days and seven nights, only after did the Seven tell him. He announced the faith would not oppose the Targaryens, for the Crone had showed him it would mean the destruction of the Sept and Oldtown, and later the faith itself.”

_There the High Septon opened the gates to Oldtown and anointed the Conqueror with the seven oils and declared him the one true king of all Westeros_.

“Those who know their histories will remember the Wars of the Faith,” the High Septon continued. “When they wanted brother to wed sister, when Maegor married six of his black brides. In the war, he brought destruction upon the holy septs, killing the faithful by the hundreds, turning the rivers red with blood as his dragon burned towns and fields. His armies slaughtering the righteous by the thousands.”

Varys stared at the High Sparrow. There was something in his eyes. A desperation? “Your Holiness, it was Jaehaerys who swore the throne will protect the faith. It was his agreements that allowed both the faith and the throne to prosper for all these years.”

The High Sparrow nodded. “It was Jaehaerys the Conciliator who swore upon the Iron Throne that the crown will always defend the faith.”

Nymeria knew about what the old Targaryen king had sworn. “He did and the High Septon had blessed every king ever since, but you haven’t yet blessed the boy.” She didn’t want to say the name nor call him king.  _Only from the blood of my family is he there_. She had demanded Tywin’s golden twins as payment for Elia and Rhaenys.

The High Sparrow bobbed his head. “That is right, I haven’t. Neither will I in the near future. War is coming to the inhabitants of King’s Landing once more. Just as it did during the Blackwater. I’m afraid to say the queen has returned to her antics.” He let out a sigh. “I hoped that the gods will show her the way and be a proper mother, with no more ambition and an inability to corrupt the king. But I was wrong, just as I feared. Those in the city will suffer for my mercy and already are. I will do my best to protect the people when it finally comes. In the meantime, I will seek guidance from the gods on this matter. Only they know who will be true. Perhaps, if they are as just as the stories claim, the Targaryens will avenge those who fell during the Red Wedding. That kind of thing cannot stand, going against the unspoken texts. Even if they fight against those of House Stark and its allies, the gods stress forgiveness, even those of the wrong beliefs, and a chance to repent.”

Varys bowed his head, his breath rank. Nymeria had little faith in the Spider, but he had given her lodging and had sneaked her and her men out the Red Keep. She was sure he wanted to speak with her.  _The dragon or the stag, the gods will need to choose, and quick_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. Next chapter will be in the Red Keep, and the arrival of Jaime.


	36. The Lioness

The column entered the gates at noon.

Banners snapped in the strong winds above the army. Knights and lords on barbed horses, their foot soldiers marching behind to the sound of drums. Standard bearers held up an army of golden lions prowling on crimson silk, ready to strike at the enemies of House Lannister. Alongside lions were golden coins, ten purple stars on a field of yellow, the green and white of House Sarsfield, the purple unicorn of house Brax, the burning tree of Marbrand, House Crakehall’s boar, the Swyft rooster and Prester’s red ox.

It was like all the houses of the Westerlands had arrived to her aid, and with them was Jaime. Cersei smiled. She had sent forth an endless stream of ravens to the Riverlands. Her brother had finally heard her call for aid and returned to protect their family from the dragons wrath. Her brother in his shining golden armour . . .

Expect Jaime wasn’t in shining armour gilded with gold that was once like his hair. Neither did he wear rubies or crimson silk. Her younger twin was armoured in the plain white of the Kingsguard, his hair had darkened and greyed with a growing beard that gave him an uncouth look. The only thing gold about him was his hand.  _A cripple, I need the help of a cripple_. In many ways Cersei wanted to laugh, but in many others she wanted to cry.

It seemed like an age since she had been held prisoner by the High Sparrow and his ilk. She had sent ravens to him so he would return from the Riverlands with their army and help her escape from the smallfolk’s hands, butchering all the sparrows in the process. That was what kept sane when she had been locked in that cell after her late uncle and so-called supporters in the small council failed to do so. But Jaime never returned and that left her to deal with all the traitors who planned her destruction alone. The bastard of Driftwater abandoned her, stealing her royal fleet only to hand his services to the Targaryens to the south. There was Lady Merryweather, her one friend who fled back to the Reach and hadn’t returned. Her dead uncle not only bit the hand that fed him, but worked alongside Swyft and Pycelle to swarm their council with roses that undermined her authority. Then add a Dornish whore – not to mention bastard – for further embarrassment. All planned to bring instability to her realm.

And it worked.

With everything going on, Cersei had difficulty holding the capital. Like the snake she was, Nymeria Sand had slipped out of her grasp, as did many of her Dornishmen who were promptly handed over to Qyburn. Most died during their interrogations, but some were found with missing tongues. Her commander of the Gold Cloaks had been a disappointment. “How did you miss them, more than a hundred Dornish, fully armoured?” she had demanded Osfyrd. He was a tall man, with the hooked nose and dark hair of house Kettleblack, more likely to scowl then smile and was much crueller then his brothers. But cruelty didn’t mean cunning, however, a trait all the Kettleblack brother surely lacked. If anything, the queen regent wagered a horse had more wit then him, and would likely perform a better job. The knight bowed his head and claimed he would begin a search throughout the city. “You bloody fool,” was her response. “You weren’t looking for them before?” Ser Osfyrd didn’t reply and she immediately dismissed him from her presence less she actually did replace him with a horse. When the door closed, Cersei poured herself some wine. Arbor Red had become a dear friend.

Cersei knew they were there somewhere, hiding in the city like vermin. Under her orders, the Gold Cloaks watched the gates and patrolled the streets, but they were hard-pressed against the sparrows and many smallfolk who regularly got into fights with her men whenever the two butted heads.  _Perhaps I should have ordered Lord Tarly to burn their nest before moving out_. Cersei regretted she didn’t.  _Enemies, I have enemies everywhere. All waiting, all watching for the first sign of weakness._ But she wasn’t defenceless as she once was. The Reachmen may have taken their leave, but Cersei had plans. After Tommen pressed his stamp on the heated wax of a scroll, Qyburn was tasked with finding more men like Ser Robert Strong, an order he had been very eager to fulfil. Sadly, none could compare to her staunchest protector, but they were as loyal as him and followed her orders without question. They were known as the Silent Lions for the shaped masks they wore and their oaths of silence. It was their quest to find all those who threatened her son’s rule and end them quickly.

She stood by the gates to the Red Keep, with the kingsguard and red cloaks forming a protective crescent. At the front of the column was her twin, armoured in white plate dented from the war in the Riverlands. His face reminded her of when he returned after Joff’s death. It was thin and gaunt, with dark lines underneath his eyes. What once had been fine locks of beaten gold were now short and bristly. He still had that wretched beard that looked so much like Robert Baratheon’s. Though it wasn’t black, it was turning grey.  _He’s old, maimed and useless now._  Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked like a crippled and lifeless husk. All the colour had drained out of him, more so when he was head to toe in the white of the kingsguard. He used to look so handsome. Cersei had dreamt of him returning the night before, where he would kiss her, say everything would be all right before throwing her onto the bed and fucking her like he used to. The Jaime in her dreams was different though, with both hands of flesh, not one of gold. His mane was long like it had been before and he was clean shaven. In the dream, he looked nothing like the haggard creature before her now.

Jaime halted his horse and looked at their children. He smiled, until he turned to her where his smile vanished. Calling a shout to his men, her brother clumsily dismounted his horse. He wasn’t as graceful as the man she had loved. “I’m happy to be back, family.” His face was sad and Cersei wanted to slap him. His arrival was meant to bring back hope for their family. Tommen was getting worried as news came north, as was Myrcella. “I would say that the Riverlands were quite cold, much more than this . . . though I hoped the reception would be warmer.”

“I’m glad your back, nuncle,” the young lion king said quickly. He wore a doublet of Lannister gold and crimson, on his shoulders was a red cloak lined with fur. The heavy padding only made him look like a bear cub and his soft face was flushed. He was smiling though, but shied up as soon his mother turned to him.

“I’m glad too. Granted, I wish it was under better circumstances, but alas.” He still had that smile though, the one that could cut. It had not blunted.

While her son had an easy smile, Cersei forced hers. Emerald eyes wandered to the other lords and retainers her brother had following him like a troupe of ducklings. Ilyn Payne stood beside his mangy grey horse in his rusted mail and with a massive greatsword on his back. The King’s Justice was sorely needed at the capital. There was also Ser Lyle Crakehall, also known as the Strongboar, someone who Cersei couldn't stand for what he said at her wedding. Ser Addam Marbrand, his surcoat emblazed with the burning tree of his house and one of the few people that was trusted by her father to be competent.

“I’m glad you’re back, my fair lords and knights. I’m thankful you’ve finally come to help relieve the city and protect your king.”  _Took you all long enough_. Turning back to Jaime, she said, “Brother, I’m so glad you’ve  _finally_  got my message.” Her words were laced with venom.

“Oh sweet sister, I came down as soon as I received word,” his words were cold. “You dare think I would dare abandon Tommen and Myrcella?” Not wanting to make a scene by lunging at him and scratching the ruin that was his face, Cersei turned to the lords and knights. All looked tired from their long ride. “I’m sure the servants can show you to your rooms, my lords.” They didn’t waste time and escorted the lords and their retinues inside the Red Keep. As they walked past her, Cersei noticed some wore the heraldry of the Riverland houses: Roote, Piper, Frey and Vance. The queen regent bit her tongue as they retired into the Red Keep. Jaime looked around. “Where is Myrcella?”

“In bed, unwell,” was the queen’s response.  _Thanks to those Dornish serpents_. Cersei knew about the Martells, and their Dornish desire for vengeance on her family.  _Tyrion sent her there. He caused this_.

“Then I’ll have to see her. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to know I’m here. Haven’t seen the princess since the beginning of this infernal war.” Turning down to Tommen, he smiled and as they walked back to the Red Keep together, the young king sprouting nonsense about his kittens before he asked Jaime if he could teach him how to use a lance and sword. Tommen wanted to defend the city, saying how Joff did so. Cersei thought the idea foolish and said he could not.

“I desire to talk to you, brother,” the queen said. “I wish to see you in my solar. After you’ve changed.” Her brother wore woollens and silks soiled with dried mud, sweat and still damp from recent snowfall. He looked more like a beggar then a Lannister.

Jaime agreed and Cersei retired to her solar where she summoned her Hand, Lord Hallyne of the Alchemists Guild. He didn’t take long to enter, always being close to her. Cersei smiled at his entrance and asked him to sit. “Do you wish for anything, my lord? Maybe a wine, perhaps?” She summoned one of the novices forward, an innocent looking maid with fair hair and blue eyes. She was among the most regular novices, Cersei found, but also the quietest and most diligent.

The pyromancers smiled a sly little smile as he rubbed those soft damp hands of his. “Of course, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.” He asked the serving girl for some wine, and the Queen regent did likewise. “What has my queen summoned me for?”

“To ask of your latest report, my lord.” He wasn’t really a lord. He wasn’t lords of anything, but it was a title that came with the post of Hand. A promotion from advisor, she thought. He had been most useful in creating her wildfire. “I would like to ask how much you’ve procured so far.” They needed a lot of it. Wildfire served well during Stannis’ attack, destroying his fleet as well as the men trying to climb the walls.

The small man smiled. His face was wrinkled and atop his bold shiny head he wore a leather cap. Though the clothes he wore were far from simple, a thick silken robe of black-and-scarlet trimmed with sable. “Much more than we expected,” he said with pride. “We’ve been working tirelessly day and night to fulfil our king’s wishes. The substance will protect this city. Our fruits are ripe and waiting.”

Cersei nodded and began writing a decree Tommen would later stamp. Her son didn’t read what was on the parchment so it was easy to get him to do what she wanted. It was his favourite thing to do, stamping warm wax.

The Alchemists guild were loyal servants, doing whatever she said as long as it brought back some power they had during the Targaryen kings. At boring length they told her it was once a powerful guild, but lost that influence and eventually were supplanted by the maesters. She allowed them that, all she desired was more wildfire. Cersei asked them to do it when Stannis was attacking, before the Imp took them for himself. “Of course. Let’s just hope you continue. How many jars have you got?”

The man gave a wry smile. “We currently have six thousand jars. Most were used during the Battle of the Blackwater. But between those left over and the substance we’ve created in record time, we’re certain we can get ten thousand to you, just as you asked. We’re even uncovering the pots present already around the city. Little treasure troves, you could say.”

The queen nodded. They did warn her that too much could prove a danger, and could burn down King’s Landing. It was a danger she was willing to take.  _Let the Targaryens be king and queen of the ashes. Dragons love ash_. They would kill Tommen and Myrcella, she knew. If that was going to happen – if Tommen and Myrcella died as the prophesy foretold – Cersei was going to take the city down with her. “I do hope you not only achieve that, but surpass it.”

The man bowed, stood up and left. As the door opened, Jaime was standing behind the door, having been stopped by Ser Boros Blount. The old Kingsguard knight leaned on the side, red faced and heaving from the exhausting and harsh task of standing still on two legs. It seemed he was incapable of just that.

After Hallyne took his leave, Jaime entered. Her brother had stripped out of his soiled garbs and plate for a doublet of crimson and gold with two roaring lions. He looked like a Lannister until her eyes reached his face. “Who was that?”

Cersei smiled. She tapped some ink off her quill before continuing to write. “Only a loyal servant who is making us something to burn dragons.” Could dragons burn? It was said they were fire made flesh.  _We’ll see soon enough_.

“Burn dragons?”

She put the quill to the side and looked up with a victorious smile. “I’ve been making a little gift for this Aegon and his little queen when they finally arrive.”  _The Dornish as well_. It had been a while since they experienced fire. They needed a refresher. Jaime looked at her dumbfounded. “Wildfire.”

“Wildfire?” He repeated the word like a fool.

_Likely losing his wits as well_. Cersei gave a small smile and nod. It was a genius idea. She had been told it could kill a dragon, especially with one having drunk the stuff, though that one had arms instead of wings. The queen knew it would serve just as well as one.  _Everything can burn. Harren the Black learned that when his castle walls melted_. That wasn’t to mention it being beautiful to look upon, remembering the time she burned down the Tower of the Hand. “Of course, dear brother. It worked so well during the Battle of the Blackwater. You should have seen it, the amount of destruction it brought upon Stannis. Destroyed a fleet, no reason to think it shouldn’t destroy an army.” Her brother stared before she sighed. “Please sit, brother. I haven’t seen you in a while and I’m sure you’re thirsty. Do you need a drink?”  _Looks like you need to relax somewhat_. Her brother did look tense.

“You know, sister, I sometimes don’t know who I pity more. Tommen, the Seven Kingdoms, or even the Targaryens who may have to clean up your mess.”

Cersei Lannister frowned at that.  _How dare you_. “I wasn’t the one who killed father, I wasn’t the one who—”

“Armed the faith, crippling our alliance with the Tyrells? I’m sure you’re not.” His face was like it was carved from stone.

Cersei's bit back a retort and poured herself a cup of wine. The rich red liquid went to the top where even the slightest tilt would make the rich red substance run from the rim. “So you’ve finally got a raven. I was afraid you weren’t reading them.”

“I finally received your raven, and I heard what happened here.” She filled his cup, but only halfway. Jaime began to move his right hand – the one that was gold – before stopping. Her brother knew he would spill it in his clumsiness, so he lightly grasped it with the left. “But truly, sister, after what we’ve done, you really think the faith would just accept it?”

She hated he was talking openly. Tommen and Myrcella might have be lions, but their power was based on people believing they were stags.  _The High Septon has yet to bless Tommen himself_  . . . she didn’t like it. The High Sparrow was a traitor and had proven that when he imprisoned her.  _He’s waiting and he’ll strike_. “The Targaryens did it, they married brother and sister. The faith didn’t only ignore it, they worshipped them.” That wasn’t what she wanted to talk about. She wanted to ask how Jaime purposed to deal with the dragons, and the faith and the Tyrells. But the way he saw the roses as allies worried her. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh, I think differently, sweet sister. Many things have happened here, and not all of them were good. You shouldn’t have sent me to the Riverlands. Our uncle died and so had Pycelle.” He let out a bitter sound and cut right through her. “They once called it the smaller council. Now they call it the smallest council—”

_It should be smaller_ , Cersei thought.  _No one is worthy, only I am. They’re all useless_. The small council was a mummer’s farce.  _A lion shouldn’t listen to the bleating of sheep_.

“—Lancel has joined the Warrior’s Sons and now we have Targaryens matching up the Kingsroad.”

“That’s what I want you to deal with, brother. While I’m under no illusion of you using your sword like you used to, I believe you still have enough brains to come up with a strategy.” She paused and remembered those flags outside. “What was that I saw riding alongside you? You come back from the Riverlands and bring our enemies to our walls. Seven only knows how many we’ve inside the city.” Jaime was useless. He was only ever good with his cock and sword hand, but he’d lost one and will likely lose the other if he tried her patience.

“The Riverlanders swore fealty to the crown and bent the knee. Alongside some fighting men, I have hostages including their sons and daughters. While they have no love for us, they also have no love for dragons and can aid in the defence of this city, especially with their men having sworn to protect their house.” He took a slow and cautious sip then immediately put it down. “Two thousand Lannister men I bring with me from the Riverlands, alongside five hundred from those who bent the knee. Not a large amount, I know, but most of our army were disbanded by our father and returned to the Westerlands.”

She had ordered the Westermen to call their banners once more. Cersei knew that’ll take time and they won’t be coming any time soon. Cersei bit her lips hard enough to taste the metallic taste of blood. “You should have come sooner brother,” her voice was soft and she was unable to look at him, instead the queen stared at the cup that was half empty. “Why were you so long in the Riverlands? I sent you who knows how many ravens. Yet you only come back now.” She looked at his golden hand, all dented. “I hope you didn’t lose your cock this time. Every time you leave, you seem to lose something.”  _Something important_. She looked at that hand that was once used to fight and pleasure her _. He should have lost his tongue, he never puts it to good use anymore_.

Her brother took it in stride. “I love you too, sweet sister. I will admit that I missed our little conversations and the sound of your voice. After weeks riding alongside Ser Illyn Payne, it gets dull. I’ll easily admit he’s not a talkative man.”

“You rode alongside Ser Lyle Crakehall.”

He smiled slightly. “The Strongboar more than made up for it.”

“Good to know that your humour hasn’t died as well.”

“Many parts of me are still alive and kicking.”

_Not the parts that matter_. She took another sip of wine and refilled the glass. The substance was sweeter then what she was used to. “Is there anything else you are aware of, brother? Do you know that Tyrion is here in Westeros and that Sansa has been hiding in the Vale?”

“Tyrion and Sansa?” He looked taken aback. “Where was Tyrion?”

“Serving the Targaryens.” She pulled out the scroll and handed it to him.  _By the hand of Tyrion of House Lannister. A Lannister always pays his debts_. She hated that letter and wanted it burnt.  _He is not a Lannister, he’s a traitor who deserves to be beheaded and have his boubous head covered in tar for all the world to see_. She remembered what the witch said, “ _the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”_

Ser Jaime Lannister read it. “It can’t be . . . how did he get into their hands?”

“Our dwarf of a brother has a cunning tongue and a thirst for vengeance.” She frowned and remembered his threats. “Kill him for me, Jaime. Kill the dwarf who killed our son and father. Protect your other children too – Myrcella and Tommen.” If Tyrion died, Maggy’s prophesy couldn’t come to fruition.

Jaime looked down. “He’s our brother.”

“He killed Joff, he killed father.”  _Who knows who else he killed_. She knew Tyrion also killed Pycelle and their uncle to cause further strife. Myrcella was ill, which was also down to his doing by aiding the Dornish, and Tyrion would kill Tommen before turning to her. There was nothing Tyrion wouldn’t do to sit himself on the Iron Throne.  _The Targaryens are fools if they think they can trust him_.

“Cersei . . .”

“You need to, Jaime, you need to protect this family. Us and our children,” her voice was almost pleading. She hated it. She was a queen, a lion of Casterly Rock, not a beggar pleading for scraps. “The Targaryens won’t get here, you’ll make sure of it. You’ll protect this family, Jaime.”

“That is why I’m here,” was his response, slow and quiet. “I’ll do what I can to protect this family.” He looked down at the table though it seemed his eyes weren’t looking at it. “I do seek to aid this family, you are correct in that assumption, sweet sister. But you’re not making it easy for me.” He then looked up, his face was hard, like father.

“What do you mean,  _not making it easy?”_ She had been trying to bring back House Lannister to its full glory whilst her brother was busy gallivanting in the Riverlands, doing who knows what. “I was busy serving my son. You were sent to remove the Tully’s and come back. Now, not only are the Targaryens moving north, there is Sansa in the Vale.” She felt sick at the thought. Qyburn had told her the wolf girl was there.  _Hiding right under my nose_. Married to the Young Falcon, their recent lord. Littlefinger was a traitor she should have killed ages ago. It was said he had the ability of rubbing two dragons together to create a third, which was the only reason he survived.  _Enemies to the north, enemies to the south, enemies to the east and enemies to the west_. She was surrounded by enemies and her allies were untrustworthy and feeble. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

Her brother frowned. “I was doing the king's orders. Your—”

“The king is nine!” Cersei snapped. “What happened to the brother who when I asked something of him, he did so. What happened to him and not this soiled creature before me?”

He took it in stride. “Soiled?” He shook his head. “Oh sister, I was never cleaner. People say that I, the kingslayer, stained the white cloak. No, the white cloak soiled me—”

She laughed.  _He’s a fool and has lost his mind_. Not that he ever had much to begin with. “Oh brother, you need to look in the mirror. I can see that war has done nothing for you.” In many ways she was wondering why she brought him back.  _I should have been given the cock_. Cersei was always stronger than her brother but the gods were cruel. 

“No, it has improved me.” His face clinched, only highlighting the winkles that blemished his once beautiful face. “I forgot what it was like to be a proper knight. I once yearned to be like Ser Arthur Dayne, but ended up as the Smiling Knight.” He shook his head. “There is still a chance to do so. I will serve my king and protect him. You are a fool, sister. A beautiful fool, but a fool nonetheless. News travels far and especially from foolish queens. The faith, imprisoning Queen Margaery, alienating the Tyrells.” His golden hand slammed on the table. “We need the Tyrells, we need their army and we need their supplies. You sent Mace but he failed, only for you to send Lord Tarly. Will you send me against them in the field? Was that your plan? Why Cersei, why alienate the Tyrells, our allies?”

_How dare he_. “They’re our enemies.”

“More so then the Targaryens?”

“They are a threat—”

“To  _you_. They’re a threat to your power, you foolish, foolish woman.” He shook his head and his face was a snarl. “I came here for them – our children – not you. Mayhaps, I should have been a proper father to them. At least a proper uncle.”

Cersei stared, her mouth agar. Then she felt a fire erupt in her chest and her arms began to shake. Jaime never spoke to her like that before. In a strange moment of clarity she looked him down. Bearded face, golden hand and limp hair. He was a different man and not the man she fell in love with. “Get out, ser.”

“Gladly, Your Grace.” He did so and slammed the door behind him loud enough to make the room shake.

Cersei stared at the door for a moment before swallowing down the last of her wine.  _Have I got no loyal servants now?_  Then she looked at the bottle.

The sun was setting when Cersei visited Myrcella in her chambers.

The princess laid in bed underneath splendid sheets of crimson, embroidered with golden snarling lions with claws at the ready. The princess’s room was beautiful, there was a balcony overlooking the bay, the dolls and figurines she used to play with neatly placed in the corner. There were shelves and shelves shacked with books given to her to read and learn from. More than a few had been gifts from Tyrion. Cersei wanted to destroy them, but she couldn’t. Her daughter loved reading them. It was shame her golden cub was too weak to do so. Instead Myrcella slept most days in a deep and uneasy slumber. When her princess was awake, she was too weak, usually just staring up at the ceiling in pain. Qyburn said Myrcella needed to keep her strength up, but with the princess being too fragile to eat and drink, Qyburn fed her milk sweetened with honey when it wasn't milk of the poppy.

Cersei Lannister took the seat beside the bed and watched her daughter sleep. Her Myrcella's face was so pale it was like the fresh snow in the courtyard, her once golden hair had turned white and looked so frail that the slightest brush would cause it to break. The beautiful emerald eyes had turned red and puffy, leaving tear stains down her cheeks.

Myrcella was feverishly hot, with a cold sweat covering her skin and drenching her bedding. She occasionally spoke in murmurs like she was being chased by something that only she could see.  _Who would do this?_  

Cersei Lannister knew the answer. The Dornish were cravens who killed with poison and tricks. They always hated her father for what happened and wanted vengeance. This was their way, to attack Myrcella and poison her. A slow death to punish a child for actions she never did.

The queen gently ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair before cupping the girl’s cheek, the princess shuddered at the touch and let out a weak murmur. In her heart, Cersei knew Myrcella would die, there was no denying it. Her daughter was growing sicker by the day. While Qyburn did what he could, there was no slowing the poison _. She’ll die and I can only watch_.

In her grief, tears formed in the corner of the queen’s eyes and her hands grasped the covers, squeezing the silken fabric until her knuckles were white. As she cried, the world blurred before her.

Myrcella was her only daughter. She was the perfect lioness, smart and beautiful, courteous but strong. The girl who loved knights and stories, fairy tales and history. A girl that held Tommen when he was sad and was learning to play the harp. The tears came quickly and Cersei sobbed. When she touched her daughter’s smaller hands, they were cold and unresponsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.
> 
> Edit: just changed a small part to make it more precise.


	37. Aegon IX

The air was cold as Aegon watched the army march up the Kingsroad.

The spearmen led the way, moving in tight formation. All had been reequipped, armoured with thick layers of cloth and mail, with black cloaks hanging from black iron pins. Their commanders wore red crested helms and suits of black scales, and standing beside them were standard bearers who held up high a three-headed dragon that snapped at anything that got to close. The Unsullied would serve better with their new equipment, Aegon knew. With proper mail and gambeson, they were better armoured. Though their shields had decreased in size, their pikes grew to six metres long, allowing the mass of eunuchs to go four-to-five ranks deep with their spears in front. As it was, the Unsullied were even weaker to being outflanked from the sides and rear, but from the front, they would be impossible to beat back. Any enemy foolish enough to go against them had to pass a wall of spears. In the battle near Bronzegate, the Tyrell cavalry learned that too late when they charged with their cavalry. The sight hadn't been pretty. 

Watching the army matching towards King’s Landing, Aegon didn’t believe there was a better sight.  _Well . . . perhaps after the doors closed and locked_. He smiled at the thought. He had forgotten how much he missed Daenerys. The last few nights of their reunion were tiring and Aegon still felt sore between his legs.

Standing beside him was Ser Jorah, Duck and Barristan, as well as a few officers from the sellsword companies, and the black cloaks. Both Kingsguard were in their silver mail and white cloaks that had darkened in the rain that rattled off their metal plate. Ser Jorah was a trusted adviser to his wife and Aegon knew the exiled lord would be a valuable asset for when they retook the north from the Boltons should they refuse to bend the knee, or Stannis should the Baratheon succeed and rally the northerners against the south once more.

As the men on foot went past, Aegon’s attention turned to the cavalry, the riders mounted atop magnificent chargers. The sellsword lancers and cavalry archers rode up first, many of whom were head to toe in scales and each step rang with the song of bells. “I always wanted to ask why they have bells.”

“Dothraki bells,” Ezzelyno answered in a rough growl. “We have a tradition in the company where every Dothraki they kill, we take a bell from his person. The barbarians consider it an insult.”

“It seems you've killed many Dothraki,” Ser Jorah remarked, staring in the same direction as his liege. Most sellswords at least had a dozen bells on their mounts.

“Aye, we do. We of the legion consider hunting Dothraki a sport. They’re nothing more than rats, to be perfectly honest, fit only to be hunted down and slain. They make a lot of racket and people fear them, but we have much experience in dealing with their Khalasars. Pikemen, archers and cavalry are enough to stop them.”

“You have much experience?”

“Volantis is usually attacked from Khalasars attacking their eastern territory. Our company is usually hired to augment the tiger cloaks and the various citizen militias that are called up in times of crisis.”

“Dothraki aren’t Westerosi knights,” Ser Barristan remarked. “Your mounted archers are lightly armed, even your heavy cavalry can’t compete with full plated knights. Should they meet proper knights in the field, your mounted units won’t last long.”

Ser Valarr chuckled. The sellsword captain sat atop a black warhorse with black barding and with a dark purple caparison. He turned to the aged knight and smiled that punchable half-smile of his. “I can easily disagree, ser. From what I heard, you Westerosi lack experience with mounted archers like those of the east, and your knights are few and far between. You have ten untrained levies for every trained knight, if I recall correctly. Your tactics are inferior to when it comes to combined arms that can be expected of Essosi standing armies. As could be seen from the battle near Bronzegate, knights aren’t that effective when used against enemies who use both foot, archers and cavalry in unison. Nor are they good against pikemen standing shoulder to shoulder, the anvil to the hammer that is my mounted contingent.” If Ser Barristan had any thoughts on that, he didn’t show them. The old knight didn’t trust the sellswords, especially the Golden Company. Continuing, the sellsword stared up into the sky. “Now if we put dragons into the equation, having them attack from the air will be invaluable. Especially if we can encircle the enemy . . . the Westerosi will be easy pickings to dragon fire.”

“If you claim so,” Aegon said with a yawn, uninterested in the conversation. He ran a hand though his wet hair that fell before his eyes.  _I really need this cut_. The sellswords were to win his throne and nothing else. “I hope you are prepared for war. You claim much but I haven’t seen it, ser.”

“The lads have been restless, I’ll confess. They’re not the kind to want to stay whist the good loot is taken by the golden boys of Bittersteel.”

“Their swords will be blooded soon, I assure you,” Aegon replied as he watched them. He knew the strength of the Golden Company against Westerosi armies and whilst he saw the Unsullied fight against the pathetic slave soldiers of Slaver’s Bay, though he wondered how effective they’ll be against knights. A similar question stood with the legion. “Just make sure your men don’t rape, or do anything else unwarranted. We need to be seen as liberators, not evil conquerors from across the sea.”

As Haldon told him, it was as much a battle on perceptions as it was on the Lannisters. Rumours would be thrown at them from the Lannister side and they needed to be shown in a positively so the people don’t resist. As the his tutor said, “You need to be seen in a good light so people won’t rise against you, but you need to be tough so people don’t see you as weak and therefor rise against you.”

“Aye, my prince. I’ve given strict orders. Those who break said rules will be given to you for punishment, to do as you see fit.” He then gave another sardonic smile, one that caused Aegon to fight back a grimace. “Has your lovely wife finished you dragon training yet? You need to join your princess to rule the skies like the dragonlords of old.”

As they waited for the army to regroup at Storm’s End, Daenerys had been teaching him on what she did to ride Meraxes. Balerion was a more difficult creature to tame, she needlessly concluded after a few days. While the black dragon let Aegon near him, the creature was bad-tempered and quite rebellious. The three dragons were all different in personality as in appearance, Vhagar was cunning if wary. The beautiful silver Meraxes was the tamest as well as the fastest, one of the reasons Aegon guessed Dany could ride her silver. Their last session yesterday was met with some success, with Dany smiling at him and claimed he could very soon be a rider. Aegon hoped so. While he would deny it, the dragon scared him as well. Even now, Balerion was circling above him, haven gotten larger and much more intimidating then the little hatchling that once slept on his lap.

Valarr continued, “Remember when I once said that taking Westeros may be difficult, it seems I very much was mistaken. I’ve never seen an invasion go this smoothly. Especially when the dragons haven’t even been used yet.”

Not in the way Aegon expected. The dragons followed the armies like sharks after the scent of blood. They appear during a battle, scare the local Westerosi while inspiring his own. Messages were written that just the sight of a dragon was enough to make castles surrender – each fearing they’ll be the next Harrenhal even if all the dragon’s fire could was only discolour the stone. “Let’s hope our situation improves further when I can fly and they get larger.” It was a short distance from the Stormlands and King’s Landing in comparison to the rest of Westeros. It helped that the other kingdoms were still in chaos. The North was fighting off Stannis Baratheon’s attack, with many houses fighting under the flayed man of House Bolton, whilst others joined the burning stag. The Riverlands meanwhile were fighting a civil war between the various branches of House Frey after the old man’s death.  _All the better for us to take advantage of_. Let the Northman fight and weaken in winter and let the Riverlands destabilise more. Then all they had to do was move in with promises of food and order with little resistance.

“Will do, my prince,” acknowledged Ser Barristan, sitting atop a large barbed courser. “They will get larger. The more they eat, the greater they get and there is always food on the ground for them, thanks to this infernal war. Provided they have much space to grow, they’ll grow.”

_Food. Either the people or their corpses_. Prince Aegon grimaced at the thought. Dragons were smart, but they were animals and like many animals, they were content to simply scavenge food after battles. When they didn’t though, they were more than willing to feed on the living. Their teeth could rip apart mail and swallow whole sections of a man, only to choke the metal back up in molten heaps.

With a roar, Aegon and the others looked up. Meraxes circled above, with Daenerys in the saddle. She descended beside them, scaring the horses whose riders fought for control. Aegon’s own panicked and only with a strong hand and calming words did the mare calm down. Giving his mount a pat on the side of the head, Aegon turned to Dany and said, “Greetings beloved aunt, any news?”

She grinned, unbuckled her harness and jumped off. Daenerys had her hair in a braid, like how Queen Visenya was depicted. She patted the cream-scaled dragon affectionately. Meraxes pressed its spiked head against her body and made a sound similar to a purr. Dany giggled and the dragon rumbled happily. “I do have news, dear nephew. Our Lord Jon Connington was more than happy to see me, initially. He’s taken the few remaining castles in the northern Stormlands, and the Kingswood. House Buckler, Hasty, Langward as well as much of Massey’s Hook have all bent the knee. Our lord hand now patiently waits for our prince to join him and the others as they prepare for King’s Landing.”

_I would have already if I could fly_. “Sadly, he’ll have to wait a little longer. You were in the air, what about the terrain?”

“The grounds are wet and the Kingswood is heavily forested. I suggest sending out a vanguard out. The wood is thick enough to be the perfect place for an ambush.” While the dragons weren’t game-changers, as of yet, they were the perfect scouts. Dany could fly anywhere in Westeros and provide reconnaissance about the land from high above. It was much better than sending scouts by either foot or horse. Daenerys didn’t seem to mind, if anything she enjoyed it and brought back stories for him.

Aegon agreed and turned back to his sellsword captain. “Send some horsemen and make sure there aren’t any Baratheon loyalists lurking in the woods, or survivors of the battle.” The dark-haired man gave a nod and galloped away. The Unsullied were good in pitched battles but when it came to guerrilla warfare, they were much to be desired.  _Hopefully their commanders have made them more flexible_. Aegon smiled and turned back to his wife. “May I ask how your recent ride went?”

Daenerys laughed. “Wonderful, I encourage you to try harder, then we can fly together.” She let out a sigh, full of longing. “The feel of the wind on your face, looking down at our domain . . . it’s just wonderful. A shame you can’t participate.”

“Oh, I need your help for that, dear wife. After all, as the Sovereign of the Eastern Sky, I’m sure you can teach me further.” He smiled his most charming smile.

Dany snorted and cocked her head. “Is that what the men are calling me, or just you? I’m flattered.”

“The men. They’re calling you a couple of things, my love. The Dragon Princess, the Silver Dragon, to name a few.” Those were the more decent ones, Aegon had punched a sellsword for a title that was very inappropriate. Ser Barristan didn’t look at him favourably for that, but Aegon didn’t care. “A good name if you ask me. Have you scouted much else?”

“I have. There are forests and rivers before us. There are also towns and farms, destroyed or abandoned. There are a few inhabited villages and I visited a few.” That caught Ser Barristan’s attention and the old man looked ready to lecture her. Daenerys knew that face and sighed. “Fear not, ser. I only visited the towns we liberated. I was perfectly safe. Besides, I had Meraxes with me and he’ll always protect me.” Like it understood the praise, the silver dragon pushed it’s snout into her shoulder, making Dany laugh girlishly and she gave the dragon a scratch behind the horns. Turning back to her nephew, Daenerys continued, “I talked to some, and they love us. Food is flooding in from Essos and the smallfolk are turning their heads towards us. One even said I was a goddess. But if one things for certain, they don't have any love for the Lannisters. They want them gone.”

“Doesn’t sound like the Lannister’s are that popular.”  _Pointing out the obviou_ _s aren’t you, Egg_. Seeing as the Stormlands have more loyalty for Stannis or Renly, he couldn’t blame them for wanting the lions out.  _But what about the dragons?_  They would shout the praises to those who had the food, Aegon knew. But would the praise continue when the food stopped being delivered? He doubted it.

The lord commander shook his head. “Your Grace, you shouldn’t explore on your own. Who knows what threats there are. If you seek to explore, please at least have a kingsguard and a contingent of soldiers with you. Even Aegon the Conqueror and your brother kept kingsguard with him.” 

Dany’s face darkened. “Guards slow me down. I wasn’t going alone, ser. Like I said, I had Meraxes with me. An army in himself and entirely loyal to his mother. I understand your concern, but I don’t need it.” Ser Barristan looked hurt by that and apologised.

“Speaking of food,” Aegon said, changing the conversation. “What about the Tyrells, surely they are supplying the city?”

Daenerys groaned. “They still love the Tyrells and their precious little rose, but I didn’t spot any food shipments coming from the west, though there were plenty of refugees fleeing  _towards_  the city. The lack of shipments makes me think our friends in the Reach have blocked the roads.”

Margaery Tyrell, three times married and twice widowed. Some people claimed she was cursed, but always in the dark corners of taverns. "She brings a curse on those who don’t pluck her petal," one sellsword had said whilst deep in his drink. Aegon doubted the rumours, but he wondered what fate will become of the boy king in the future.  _Thrice married and thrice widowed?_  He didn’t want to think about that. He promised Tyrion and intended to deliver. He may not like the Lannister, but he wouldn’t abandon his word. If needed, the boy king could be sent to the Citadel, the Night’s Watch or the faith, out the way but alive. The girl likewise.

While the majority of the army proceeded to King’s Landing by foot, a small portion had boarded ships and sailed north. The plan was to surround the city, where the Dornish will group up under the command of Quentyn Martell. Princess Arianne had wanted Aegon to go to Dorne and meet her father, saying how much he would want to meet his nephew. Aegon politely declined and replied with, “I will go to Dorne, I ensure you. But not now. Only when King’s Landing and the Seven kingdoms are under the Targaryen banner, will I do to Dorne to see my uncle.” Princess Arianne Martell wasn't happy with that. After both sides said their goodbyes, the princess returned to Dorne with her retinue.  _Let’s hope the Dornish arrive soon_.

While that was going on, Daenerys took charge in making him a rider. Days passed before she decided he was ready. She stood beside Meraxes as Aegon slowly entered the snow covered field, littered with the blackened bones of cows. The farmer had been angry to say the least, even after he received a letter of payment by the sellswords now waiting with crossbows at the ready a fair distance away. Neither Aegon nor Dany liked that, but Ser Barristan was unmoving. The prince doubted the archers do much besides maybe making Balerion angry.  _Maybe they’re here to provide a distraction._

“You’ll do well, nephew,” Dany said. She wore her armour and a thick cloak lined with soft fur. Her face was red and her breath was visible in the cold.

“You sound confident.”

“You’re a Targaryen, Egg.”

“I’m only half. Half Targaryen, half Martell.” He looked at Balerion waiting in the centre of the field, having grown passive after his feeding but looking even more intimidating with blood covering his jaw and stained teeth. “What if it isn’t enough? What if I make a mistake?”  _What if he eats me or sets me alight?_

His wife rolled her eyes. “Doubting yourself now? What happened to all that bravado last night?” Her lips slowly formed a smile and she gently cupped his cheek, running a finger down the line of his jaw. “You’ll be fine, Aegon. I know you will. Just do as I taught you.”

He nodded and took a few steps forward.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Aegon turned around and Dany smiled. “One bit of advice, nephew. When you  _do_  fly. Keep your mouth closed.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out if you don’t.”

Aegon took a deep breath as he slowly proceeded forwards, not making direct eye contact with the creature that stared with bright crimson eyes.  _No wonder people are calling you Balerion Reborn_. Not that it helped to calm him especially with this being the most aggressive dragon, one who fought with its siblings over food and almost always coming out on top, as well as stealing from the locals who were powerless to do anything.

Still trying to act as the good rulers they were taught to be, both Aegon and Daenerys payed the farmers for the burnt bones of animals. Tyrion, meanwhile, was suspicious and claimed they could have been burnt on purpose. Neither Aegon nor Daenerys had evidence that was the case and continued. A few times they got one who brought human bones that were blackened, the least they could do was give them compensation in gold and gentle words. Dany had been distraught when that it first happened. For Aegon, the memories didn’t help, it just made him all the more nervous.

“Keep calm, Aegon,” Dany called over to him. “Dragons wont bond with those they believe their inferior.”

The prince straightened himself.  _I am not inferior._   _I’m a Targaryen. Blood of the Dragonlords and the sun. This dragon will accept me as a rider_.  _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. I am the blood of those who stood their ground against the dragons and won._

When he got near enough, Aegon looked up directly at Balerion. Smoke rose between the teeth and the blood of cattle seemed to steam. Then it roared. The dragon’s breath was like a furnace, reddening his skin with the sheer heat. Charred flesh and broken bones laid between the black teeth, some being flung at Aegon alongside boiling spittle. The faith of the seven spoke of seven hells for each sin a man or woman did. It was like he was looking into one of those hells.  _If I run, he will eat me. If I move, he will strike_. Aegon Targaryen was never surer of anything in his life.

“Aegon, keep calm. Don’t do anything rash,” Dany yelled, her voice sounding slightly strained. It was like she feared where this was going.

Aegon stared ahead, his limbs felt like they were made of lead. He saw his reflection in the bright red orbs that were Balerion’s eyes. It was a terrified boy he saw.  _I cannot let him know my fear. I can’t. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._  He repeated those words like a prayer.

Once again, the dragon roared, rising its serpentine neck far above him as it beat its wings, sending powdery snow everywhere. Aegon staggered back, a hand shielding his face. Balerion bellowed, salvia burning as it touched his skin. Aegon wanted to flee, he wanted to find something to cower behind, but doing so would make Balerion see him as prey instead of master. “No,” he shouted, his voice starting soft but quickly got louder. “ _NO!”_

The black wings spread out, blocking the light and engulfing his vision so all he could see was red and black.  _The colours of house Targaryen_. It covered him in shadow. Many times he trained Balerion, this was the latest and he had got further than before. But it felt like it still was the first.  _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. I won’t bend to you_. “ _Zaldrīzes Saevati!_ ” Balerion reared up once again, bellowing into the air, letting loose a torrent of flame that Aegon barely dodged by leaping back. The tip of his boots caught alight but were quickly doused in the snow. “ _Balerion Dohaeris!_ ” The black beast didn’t seem to like the sound of that, releasing another roar directly into his face, heated air instead of flame. He didn’t leap back this time, Aegon stood his ground, eyes locked on the monster before him.  _It was a game of wills_ , he decided.  _One had to back down and be subservient for the other_. Aegon wanted something in his hands to hold at the least as they became slippery with sweat. _All men must die, but we go down kicking and defiant_.

The two stared each other down. The black wings beat again, and again, then folded. It was Balerion who wavered first. The black dragon lowered its head submissively, stretching out flat on the ground. The dragon still made a low growling sound as if to save face. Aegon Targaryen, stared at the dragon laying down on the mud and snow before him. His heart was beating in his throat and his hands were shaking.

There were clapping behind and he turned.

“You did it, nephew,” Daenerys called, smiling, looking more relieved than impressed. Ser Rolly and Ser Barristan, too, looked relieved. “You must be quick. Take advantage. Do it now.”

Aegon nodded. He felt faint, his legs felt like they were going to collapse underneath him any moment. Somehow he managed to gain his bearing and climbed onto Balerion’s back. The black dragon hissed. The scales were warm underneath his palms. The black dragon’s moved, muscles rippling and twisting beneath the scales. Before Aegon had a chance to soak everything in, the wings cracked like thunder, and he was flying.

One moment he was on the ground, the next, the world was suddenly becoming very small underneath him. Aegon could see the holdfasts and castles, forests, fields and streams.  _I’ve done it. I’m a rider_. He could help but laugh, quickly regretting it as the cold wind and flakes of snow filled his mouth.

He felt dizzy, and held onto the ridges for dear life. He felt the urge to simply close his eyes. Aegon was scared and frozen with fear, but happy. Happy he was the second Targaryen to be flying in over a hundred years. Taking a deep breath and opening his purple eyes, he saw Balerion had levelled off and heading straight . . . somewhere.  _Yes, fly me higher. Higher_. He shouted the words, but he couldn’t hear them. The wind was too strong, too loud.

_My ancestors will be proud_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	38. Sansa IV

As the rising sun streamed through the curtains, Sansa pried the muscular arm from her, sat up and stretched. While it had been warm when they went to bed, the chambers had chilled through the night. Only now did she notice.  _It is finally winter and has us in its grasp_. The Lady of the Vale stood up, her sensitive feet ticklish against the bear-skin rug that covered the stone floor that felt as cold as ice. Sansa Arryn slipped into a soft woollen gown, threw her hair back and straightened her belt so her garments wouldn’t fall off.

“Up already?” came a grouchy voice beside her.

Harry was half buried beneath a pile of covers and furs. More often than not, he slept as deeply as a tired babe. His body was muscled and bruised from his bouts in the training yard, getting more regular as he handed evermore powers to Littlefinger. Instead of ruling like her lord father, Harrold instead spent his time practising his sword arm against other young knights. Despite Sansa insisting he govern, for that was his duty after all, Harry had simply laughed. “My lady, we have a war to fight. I need not waste my time with burdensome duties like counting coppers when I should practise for this war of yours. Littlefinger was in the King’s small council and served you aunt faithfully. I’m sure he can handle my bannermen, he did as regent. But me, oh, I can’t get sloppy and I don’t wish to fall in the field of battle.” She didn’t like his words but was forced to follow his desires.

“The fire is out, my lord.”

“I’m sure a servant will relight it,” he said dismissively, rolling onto his back. “They’ll just throw some more logs and the room will be as warm as the night before.” He shuffled and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Sansa shook his head and padded barefoot across the room to the balcony. Their chambers were cold, but outside it was much more so. It woke her up and Sansa inhaled a deep breath that went down her throat, spreading icy tendrils throughout her body. It reminded her of her childhood in Winterfell, which seemed so long ago.  _A peaceful time, when the world seemed so innocent_.  

A fierce wind blew snow down the mountain. Sansa shivered and tightened her robes, wishing for something thicker. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful sight, especially the mountains, and most of all, the Eyrie that reigned high above the rest. The mountaintop castle was white as the mountain, a cluster of seven slim, white towers tightly bunched together.  _It looks like it’ll disappear under the snow_. In the distance, the Eyrie looked like the castle she had dreamed about when she was little and still a maiden.  _The castle I would reign as queen as my prince ruled, with knights and lady’s to serve me_. It was a childish thought and Sansa Arryn was no longer a child.

The sound of muffled shouts and curses caused Sansa to look down at where the army marshalled outside the Gates of the Moon.

Smoke rose from hundreds of campfires, filling the Vale with a pale grey haze. There was untold thousands of coloured pavilions, belonging to the knights of the Vale, with many more sleeping underneath bushes or linen sheets that were the only thing separating them from the elements. Many wearnt knights. Others were retainers and levies and household troops. Near twelve-thousand, Lord Yohn Royce had declared, enough to bring to the Riverlands to heel. The only force Sansa had seen that was larger were the Tyrells after the battle of the Blackwater.

Just outside the camp was a line of scorpions mounted atop wheeled carts. Those machines had been fashioned by Braavosi engineers brought in by Littlefinger, for he declared no craftsmanship in Westeros would be sufficient. To further sell that idea, Lord Baelish told her the story of when the slaves that formed Braavos escaped from the Freehold, they used those exact machines to protect their lost city from dragons. They were never used of course, for dragons never visited Braavos, so Sansa was wary. She could only hope and like he knew her thoughts, Lord Petyr added further assurance in his solar, speaking privately over a cup of wine while her husband sparred. “Never underestimate the power of technology and centuries of fear. These are enough to bring down a dragon, or three. History has proven that scorpions are the bane of dragons, my dear. During the Dance of Dragons, two dragons fell during the Battle of the Gullet, falling to crossbow and scorpion bolts. During the Conquest, Queen Rhaenys learned that at her peril and Meraxes was much larger. The so-called Mother of Dragons has a dragon of a similar name. Wouldn’t it be fitting if she suffered the same fate should she try and go against the both of us?”

Still, Sansa doubted it would be enough. She had seen them fire, showing off before lords. They were reloaded quickly with complex mechanisms she couldn’t begin to fathom. Many of the Vale lords looked at those machines with scorn. Once upon a time, Sansa would have said that a true knight could have slain a dragon, armoured only in his faith and with a lance in hand, but Sansa was no longer a child, she was the Lady of the Vale.

Below the walls, the morning sun caught the steel ends of pikes that flamed red in the sunrise. It was like they were already bloodied. Smiths and carpenters added more to the racks as they walked among knights, lords in silk and padded armour, men with steel caps and mail shirts, camp followers who lazily left the various tents, archers fletching arrows, pages running messages and grooms leading a dozen breeds of horses. Above the camp flew hundreds of banners of differing colours. The moon-and-falcon of House Arryn was everywhere, but flying alongside that was broken wheels on fields of green, red castles, winged chalices and so much more. Not all were familiar to her, some belonged to minor knight houses that only few would know, and the minor lords who were bannermen to bannermen. Others were hedge knights and freeriders who had swarmed in for the hope of profit and a full belly. The second most common banner she had to see was banner of House Royce. It was like all the Vale knights had rose for their call . . . but it was only half. The houses of the coast were still marshalling their forces, Lord Petyr had said, telling everyone they still needed time. Harry nor the lords in attendance wanted that, instead wishing to head straight off with the Riverlands in disrepair.

“Like what you see, my dear?” asked Harry was he walked out to the balcony in only his trousers, his fair blond-hair tousled. He grinned and rubbed his eyes before they trailed at the army outside the walls. “This is it.”

“Your army.”

“Our army.” He took her hands in his. They were warm and callused. “This will return what is rightfully yours, my love. The falcons of the Vale will soar as they’ve done hundreds of times before, but this time they’ll liberate the Trident on those who have wronged your family, Sansa. Then they’ll move north. You’ll be the Lady of Winterfell as is your right.”

“I know.” Sansa turned away from his gaze and instead to the snow on the stone walls. She wanted to go home, she really did. But at the same time, she didn’t. The Boltons had sacked Winterfell, destroying much of it. She feared going back after what happened.  _It won’t be my home, but an empty shell of it_. It wouldn’t have her father, nor mother, nor brothers, nor even Arya and Jon. There wouldn’t be Jeyne or Beth, or any of the servants who had served her growing up. That was made Winterfell her home, more than the structures itself.

“Hey,” he cupped her cheek and made her look at him. “We’ll do this. Sansa, if you wish – and it’s something I encourage – you can stay here, in the Vale. Let me lead the men and take back your family’s holdings.” His voice was gentle and genuine.

He leaned in closer, for a kiss. His breath tasted stale and of wine. Sansa leaned back and looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I need to go, Harrold. My uncle Edmure is held prisoner by the Lannisters. The Frey’s are fighting over the Riverlands. If Lady Brienne is correct, my mother . . .” She sighed and turned back to him. “It’s my blood that holds claim to Riverrun—”

“That’s why you should stay here, Sansa. You’re too important. War is no place for a lady.”

“Harry . . .” She cupped his cheek and felt the hairs sprouting forth. She preferred it when it was clean-shaven, but her husband got it into his head that a beard would make him look older and more lordly. Sansa leaned against his strong chest. “I need to go. Those are my family’s houses, the Tully’s of Riverrun. I may be a Stark, but I hold the Tully blood in my veins, like the very waters of the Trident. They need to see me and will turn their swords to our cause. If not, they may just see you as another invader. They’ve been broken enough already.”  _With more conflict yet to follow, right in the beginning of winter_.

Her husband looked ready to argue but released a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder why I try to reason with a wolf. You lot are stubborn when you want to be.”

“Starks tend to be,” she agreed. She looked like a Tully and now had the Arryn name, but she was a Stark.

His lips curled into a grin. “Stark or Stone, both unmoving.”  

He was still upset about that, she knew. It had made him seem like a fool before the court. Lord Baelish claimed that while the young lord was favoured, some of his bannermen mocked him for not seeing it sooner, though they too called her Littlefinger’s bastard. Many of those same lords were also in Lord Baelish’s pockets as well, she noted. Now it seemed her lord husband wanted to loss their disrespect and would do so at the head of an army, leading the charge just like her brother had done.

“And strong and resilient,” the Lady of the Vale added. Traits she needed in her new role. Sansa needed to be as just as her father, as strong as her mother.  _I am the last Stark and need to act the part_.

Harry chuckled and ran a hand through his sandy hair. “That you are, my dear.” He chuckled and cupped her cheek. His touch was warm and despite herself, she leaned into it. “You will do wonderfully, as a lady and a mother.” He looked down at her belly. “Do you think it’ll quicken?”

Of that, Sansa was unsure. It was known that Harry was fertile, that was one of the first things she knew about him, and she didn’t want to think about it. The Lady of the Vale turned to the army below her and changed the subject. “On the morrow you move out, will you be talking with your lords?”

“Aye, my lady. We’ll be discussing our operations in the Riverlands and how to achieve it. Your grand-uncle desires to move quickly and break through the Freys and their allies. It’ll be frightfully dull.”

_Dull but necessary_. “Will Lord Baelish be there?”

“Of course he will. He’s our advisor. Why wouldn’t he?” He cocked his head. “Why do you ask, my love? Having doubts on him being beside me?” His lips curled and that dimple reappeared. When she didn’t respond as quickly as he wanted, Lord Arryn laughed and brought her close to his chest, a strong arm around her midriff. “Jealous of him hogging me to himself? Never took you for being that sort of woman, my lady!”

His laughter was usually infectious but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to join in. Of recently, Lord Baelish had been speaking to him, and her less. It could be expected. Littlefinger was an advisor and made himself in charge of all the financial matters with the Lord Paramount heading off to war in beginning of winter. But she feared what words he was saying to her husband.

“I’m not jealous, husband. Simple annoyed you’re spending more time with him then me.” She smiled sweetly at him. In truth, Sansa took advantage of Littlefinger’s absence and made friends among the various wives and daughters of the Vale nobility. As the Lady of the Vale, she needed allies and King’s Landing taught her a lot, Littlefinger more so. She never trusted any of her handmaidens with anything sensitive, but they had their uses and some brought some information to her ears.

One piece she heard about was as unexpected as it was dangerous. In the search for Lady Lysa’s body from where she fell, Lord Nestor Royce’s men had scoured the countryside, finding it a bloody ruin. As she was the wife of the Lord Jon Arryn and the mother of Sweetrobin, they were required to collect it all. Two shoes of her aunt were found, and one more. Looking back, Sansa knew it had to be hers. One of her shoes had to have fallen out the moon door. That piece of information, should it be discovered, would break Littlefinger and herself.  _They’ll know I’m involved. They’ll know I lied under oath and they’ll believe we pushed her_. She had to be cautious. It was made even worse with Lord Nestor being a schemer. While he acted humble, claiming the Gates of the Moon were a worthy prize, Lord Baelish was quick to point out that he wanted the Eerie and had planned to get it by marrying Myranda to Harry.  _But that can’t happen now, not while I’m married to him._ But should Nestor find a way to remove her . . . she didn’t want to think about it.

“Then I’ll make sure we’ll have more time together then,” Harry declared. He wiggled his eyebrows and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh.

“Later. I’m sure you can wait until then, husband.”

He looked ready to kiss her, but when he leaned in, another gust of wind blew at them. Sansa leaned back shivering and was about to head back inside. She barely caught Harry smirk before he lifted her up bridal style, laughing. Sansa yelped in surprise and felt his hands trail up her leg as he carried her inside, and deposited atop the furs of the bed.

Despite herself, Sansa laughed with him and Harry climbed atop her, planting kisses down her body as opened up her robes.

Sansa shuffled underneath him. “Please, don’t,” she said, eyes closed momentarily. “Not yet.”

“Why, my lady,” he asked with a boyish smile. “Am I not skilled enough? Don’t you desire your lordly husband?”

“No, not that . . . it’s just that we have duties. While I would love to stay with you, we need to get dressed and go. I’m sure your lords want to have you listening to their concerns.”

Harrold Arryn groaned and glanced at the open door leading to the balcony. “Can’t they do it themselves? I never had much appetite for that stuff. Counting coppers isn’t important, despite what Lord Baelish says. There was a reason I put him in that position.”

“You are the Lord Paramount. They are the lords who serve you. You need to be there to lead them.”

“I am. But that doesn’t mean I like talking to stuffed shirted nobles who prattle on about this or that.” He turned back to his wife, smiled and ran a finger down her neck gently. “But this I would much prefer.”

Sansa pushed him off and sat up. “You can wait, dear husband. I know patience is not your thing, but you’ll be better for it.”

Once more, the young lord groaned. “Even when we’re married, you still act like Alayne.”

“I know, I’m evil for not giving my husband what he wants,” was her response. “But my mother always said that having too much of something spoils it.”

“Or I could take you as a wildling. You’re a northern girl after all,” his voice was lightened with humour. “I’ll take you as my rights and you’ll scream just like last night.”

She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Then you’ll regret it, Young Falcon. I’m a wolf.” Though he was right, she did scream the night before. Thinking back on it, she blushed. “I’ll fight you all the way.”

Harry laughed. “Dear wife, I believe you overvalue your own strength. I could take you now and I know you won’t resist.”

“I won’t,” she agreed, before giving him a kiss on his nose. “But you do need to meet your lords. You need them to respect you, don’t you? Giving it to Lord Baelish won’t do that. They need to know  _you_  are their lord, not him.”  

Her husband sighed and looked frustrated. “By the grace of the Seven, fine. I’ll try, my love.” He kissed her once more on the lips then dressed himself.

As her husband made a move to dress himself, there was a knock on the door, it opened and Lyanna Ryger walked in and curtsied. The girl’s eyes were unable to leave her lord who noticed her, shot a smile and put on a loose tunic. Sansa frowned at the handmaiden. The girl noticed and apologised. “Lyanna, the fire is out. Could you put some more logs on it? When you’ve done that, I want a bath. Make sure the water is hot.” 

“As my lady wishes,” the girl curtsied again and hurried off.

“My lady is bossy,” Harry said, turning around to her, chuckling.

“My handmaidens should be less nosy,” was Sansa’s response. They had large eyes, larger ears and even bigger mouths. It reminded Sansa of King’s Landing, but now she didn’t know who her own handmaidens served.  _Littlefinger most likely, but there are others._  The lords of the Vale may claim honour, but they were just like those in the king's court.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say, women love me. It’s not my fault if they can’t resist.”

_They don’t resist, and neither do you_. It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last Sansa chapter within the Vale. After this, they ride to the Riverlands. Apologies for the wait. I’ve been quite busy with college, doing some other fics as well my own original work. The next chapters will be Daenerys taking Dragonstone and after that will be Jon Snow.


	39. Daenerys IX

She watched the army disembark from the ships beneath the shadow of Dragonstone. More than fifty vessels took part in the invasion of the island, with a healthy number of those being dromonds that had once formed the royal navy commanded by Aurane Waters. Besides the harsh wind and rough sea, they didn’t face any resistance. In truth, she expected more.

Looking upon Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen felt sadness. The Island was dark and dreary, much more than the Stormlands. The first thing she saw was the dragonmont, the massive volcano the island grew from, belching dark smoke into the grey sky and carrying with it the strong aroma of ash and brimstone. Clinging to the rugged terrain was the castle built by the Freehold and it was an impressive sight. Dragonstone wasn’t like anything Dany had ever seen before. The stone was black and twisted into fantastic shapes by the ancient Valyrians using fire to liquefy stone and rise it similarly to how a potter moulded clay. Dragons were everywhere. The larger stone dragons had been hallowed out to become buildings, others lined the walls and framed gates. Tails formed stairs and wings became archways. Dragonstone easily dwarfed all other structures on the island.

It was a strange sight, but one that made her heart race and belly tighten.  _This was where I was born_. She looked down at the ocean, cold and grey, as it smashed against the rocky columns rising from the sea. She had been born in a storm, earning the title ‘Stormborn.’  _My mother died in that storm, the one that sank the royal fleet. I was going to be handed over to Robert, me and Viserys, but Ser Darry sneaked me away_. The thought made her sad. As if he sensed her, Meraxes roared, the sound echoing off into the distance.  _So much for being stealthy_.

Below, black cloaks and sellswords were jumping from the boats that made it onto grey shore. With drilled discipline, they lined up in formation, shields and spears at the ready. One boat was flipped over, engineers turned it into a makeshift battering ram with a iron dragon's head. A detachment had broken away and was rushing to the port town before any resistance was made. There were at least two thousand soldiers with them to take Dragonstone, the rest were marching up the kingsroad. The plan was too fully encircle King’s Landing, with the cogs at the rear of the fleet carrying men and supplies across the river.

_As soon as the capital falls, we’ll have the centre of the Seven Kingdoms. Its government, its treasury and the port with all roads leading outwards. But above all, the fount of political power throughout Westeros_. She grinned and descended with Aegon following a fair distance behind. Her nephew was much more cautious with his own mount, still learning to properly fly Balerion who was a stubborn dragon. Daenerys landed, removed her harness and jumped off the saddle. She took off her dragon-shaped helm and threw her braid back, brushing back a few loose strands from her eyes.

An officer of the Legion rushed towards her. He was Ghiscari, homely and with scars crisscrossing his amber face. The sellsword pressed a hand to his shoulder and bowed before both Targaryens, the standard Ghiscari bow. “Prince, princess,” he said in High Valyrian, this voice thick with the accent more similar to Volantis than Slaver’s Bay. “I've took the liberty to send a force to capture the village. We’ll build siege engines and then we’ll press forwards, if you consent. I ask how you want us to proceed.”

“Derlyn,” Aegon informed. “That’s the name of the town you speak of.” Her nephew looked at the ruins. The wooden palisade that had surrounded the settlement had been collapsed in places. Most of the houses were little more than ruins, the stone blackened and the wood burnt. “Looks like it’s already been attacked.”

“Ser Loras Tyrell and the Reachmen attacked the castle in Lord Stannis’ absence,” informed Ser Jorah who walked forward. “They more than likely pillaged the town of everything of value. Same for the others, my prince. The sellswords will find little in the way of loot here.”

It was said that the soil around Dragonstone was bountiful thanks to the volcano. The islands didn’t have enough land to export their produce, but just enough to support the Dragonstone and its surrounding isles. “I don’t want the men looting,” she told the exiled knight. “The locals have experienced enough and the men have had their purses fattened. I want our army to assemble immediately and move to the castle. Do you have any knowledge on the garrison’s strength?”

“I’m afraid not, princess. I’d wager that the Tyrells took most of their forces back to face the Ironborn, and Stannis sent most of the available manpower with him to the North. These islands should be depopulated of men. Shall I send a force to scout the castle as our armies prepare to siege?”

“No need, my lord. Dragons are far greater scouts,” Aegon responded, taking off his sallet helm and running a hand through his pale hair. “We’ll fly and bring back information to the men. Just order the army to assemble and get ready.”

The knight nodded. “As you wish, my prince.” He took his leave towards the amassing force with the officer.

Aegon turned to Daenerys and smiled warmly. “Shall we go, my dear? Our birthplace and my rightful seat as prince.” One hand wrapped around the handle of Blackfyre. As he turned to stare at the castle, Daenerys knelt down to collect a handful of grey sand. It was damp and cold, forming clumps of grain that stuck to her skin. “Was it as you imagined, Dany? Our ancestral home?”

“Bad memories.” They would be if she could remember. Daenerys Targaryen had only been a babe when it all happened. All knowledge of her birth had been told to her by Ser Darry and Viserys. “I killed my mother the night of the storm.”

“Dany . . .” She felt a tear run down her cheek and her husband removed his gauntlet, cupped her face. His thumb brushed her skin, tracing the cheekbone. It was a rough sensation, but comforting and warm. “There is no need to cry—”

“I’m not crying,” she hissed defensively. Princess Elia may not have died giving birth to him, but her mother did. The queen died in a bed of blood. She pushed his hand away, maybe a bit too hard from his hurt expression. “Sorry.” It was one thing to do it in private, but another before their army. She grew madder at herself, it was the sight of Dragonstone that let the memories flood back. Viserys told her of that night in vivid detail; when the storm ripped stone from the walls, the shouts of servants and guards and her mother’s screams that echoed through the keep. Daenerys looked away from him.  _I will not appear weak. I am a dragon. The daughter of Queen Rhaella Targaryen and a dragonrider_. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and will be a queen, helping to rebuild a divided kingdom beset by destruction. Looking back up at her birthplace, she said, “We ride now.”

Mounting their dragons once more, the Targaryens took to the sky. Daenerys gripped the reins hard as she was pushed back into the saddle, Meraxes easily outpacing his larger brother going upwards before leveling off and circling around Dragonstone. Like many predatory birds, Dany knew dragons were most effective when taking a sharp dive, breaking shortly above their prey and letting loose a funnel of flame. She was still learning how to perfect it, but Meraxes was a good dragon and a fast learner.   

Below them, their soldiers were marching towards the castle, shields held high to protect against arrows. The army below looked so much like a line of ants. Looking up at the castle, Daenerys frowned. Draping the castle walls were the green banners of Highgarden alongside the crowned stag of House Baratheon. In their place should be black banners emblazoned with a red dragon. It had always been a Targaryen castle, since the conquest and the last stronghold of their house before Stannis stole it from them.  _It'll return to its rightful masters_.

Due to the howling wind, both Targaryens were forced to communicate with arm gestures. The two dragons dived towards the walls, breaking their fall by spreading their wings. Together they shouted, “ _Dracarys!_ ” Both Meraxes and Balerion lose their flame in the air, just above the garrison.

It did as they dare hoped, all the soldiers in the courtyard immediately dropped their weapons and surrendered. It was a strange sight, but not something she didn’t expect. Daenerys heard one story of an entire city surrendering to an army who simply marched in circles around the walls. A dragon was much more intimidating than a marching army, let alone two.

Both Meraxes and Balerion landed and their riders looked down at the soldiers who were on their knees. All of them wore the colours of the Reach houses, though only a handful wore the golden rose on their garments. In a few ways Daenerys was both disappointed and relieved they surrendered. On one hand she wanted to experience a battle like her forefathers and the stories she read about, but on the other hand, she had never experienced battle and the act of being shot at didn’t exactly appeal to her.

“Dragons,” soft mummers ran through the crouched soldiers. All their eyes stared at the dragons, not the riders.

Her husband spoke up, “I am Prince Aegon Targaryen. Son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia of Dorne. The rightful king of Westeros and lord of Dragonstone. I am here to reclaim what is mine. Who’s the lord in charge here?”

“That will be me,” rose one man in battered armour and a dark brown surcoat stained from the rain. He was large man, with pox-marks covering his face, a large hook nose and brown hair so dark it was almost black. He lowered his gaze to the floor, arms trembling. “My name is Ser Donnel Flowers. Under my command, the castle of Dragonstone and its island submit to you, Targaryens. It would be an unwise man to fight a doomed fight, therefor I offer you my sword.” He pulled the blade out its leather casing and laid the sword on the ground. “I request only mercy for me and my men.”

“You bent the knee and shall have the mercy you seek,” Daenerys Targaryen spoke up. Her voice muffled under her helm. “Order you men to open the gates and surrender your arms. You shall be treated honourably and as your station dictates.”

“Not much then, princess. I am no lord, only a bastard of Cider Hall, when his lordship left with the Arbor fleet, we were left without proper leadership. I was of the highest birth and therefor the duty fell to me.”

“Bastard or not, you surrendered and therefore be spared the fate of those who resist.” The dragon stared at them with cautious golden eyes. It was clear he didn’t like being surrounded and neither did Daenerys. She had a small sword on her belt but didn’t have the skill to use it. She relied on her dragons and armour for protection.

With the bastard relaying their orders, the token garrison of Dragonstone opened the gates and pulled down the banners of House Tyrell and Baratheon. The Targaryen army would move in and take control. While that was going on, her nephew turned to the castellan. “We’ll give you and your men the choice to serve us. Those who hand their swords to their true rulers of these lands will be greatly rewarded.”

“Of course, my prince, I’m sure they would. But I fear that my men won’t wish to fight their countrymen and kin. Most of these men are levies, farmers and craftsmen before the war. I don’t know where they came from, but they speak of a hundred different lords, some dead, others alive but away.”

Aegon nodded. “When this war is over, I ensure you that they’ll return home and be safe under us.”

“That was what they all say, Your Grace.”

No more words were exchanged. Both Targaryens mounted their dragons and set back towards the army that was marching up the twisting path to Dragonstone, their standards proudly displaying the colours of their forces.  

“So you’ve done it,” called Ser Jorah who stood beside Greyworm and other officers of the black cloaks, their red crests swaying in the wind and armour rang with droplets of rain. “The castle is yours.”

“Our home is ours,” Daenerys happily agreed, jumping from her saddle only to land on her hands and knees. She quickly stood up and rubbed the mud off herself. The dragons were only betting bigger and bigger. Looking back to the direction of the keep, Daenerys saw Vhagar who seemed to be enjoying flying over the volcano itself.  _Perhaps it’ll soon be more than three_. She did love the idea of some hatchlings, but Daenerys also feared that they may get into the wrong hands. There were only three Targaryens – one of whom was still a babe – but there were many who claimed dragonlord ancestry and were of questionable loyalty to say the least.

“Good to know,” Lord Aurane Waters answered as he walked over with two guards in sea-green surcoats, silver mail and with seahorse crests on their helms. Lord Aurane wanted to move against Driftwood sooner rather than later to get the seat he was promised.

Ser Jorah bowed his head. “If Dragonstone is ours, the islands of Claw Island, Driftmark, Sweetport and the others will soon surrender and the bay will be under you control, my queen.”

“I’m not queen yet.” She smiled.  _But soon enough_. “We’re still to be crowned.” It made her heart race just thinking about it.

“Of course, princess.”

Wanting to stretch her legs, Daenerys decided to walk the through ruined town of Derlyn. She was purposely trying to delay returning to the castle. As much as she wanted to go to where she was born, she feared it just as much. Nothing good had come from Dragonstone. Aegon saw what was on her mind, kissed her cheek and took her arm in his. She happily accepted the gesture. 

They walked through the town and Dany noticed that many people were fair haired. It was like walking in Lys, just less appealing to the eyes. While Lys had wide open streets lined with public buildings, great domed temples, apartments and Valyrian triumphal arches, Derlyn had hastily built hovels and the people were gaunt, unclean and staring at them with suspicious eyes if they weren’t hiding in their homes.

“It’s said that Driftmark and Dragonstone are populated by dragonseeds,” Aegon spoke out, his eyes not leaving a woman dressed in dirty linens, shivering, standing behind two bony children with bloated bellies.

“It is, my prince,” Aurane Waters answered. “The Targaryens and the Velaryon have long did their duty to cause that. I’m one of them. You see, there is a different culture here from the mainland. First night was never popular in the Seven Kingdoms, here is a different story. Targaryens have ruled here since the Doom, long before Aegon the Dragon decided to do a little conquering. Seeing as they viewed their dragon flying foreign rulers as gods or close enough, they were less resistant to letting them take their rights. If anything, the brides who were bedded were considered to be blessed, and those children were usually given lavish gifts by their father. That is one reason why there are so many people here with purple eyes, that and the ones who came with the Targaryens from Old Valyria.”

“I heard that when King Jaehaerys the First abolished the first night, some Targaryen princes continued,” Ser Jorah remarked.

“The princes who rule can do as they wish. Aegon the Unworthy and Aerys took advantage when they were princes of Dragonstone. They laid with the daughters and wives of sworn knights, innkeepers and fishermen’s wives. Ask anyone here and they’ll likely claim to have a bit of dragon within them.”

_And possible riders for our dragons._  That was what happened during the Dance of the Dragons, but a couple of dragonseeds turned against their masters. Daenerys wondered if her brother slept with others when he was a prince.  _If he kidnapped Lyanna Stark, what’s the chances of him laying with another girl? Have I got other nephews and nieces besides Aegon and Rhaenys?_  There was also a certain captain, but she didn’t want to think about him. More people came out to watch them, one man even started whooping. “Lord Waters, when will the shipments arrive to bring food?”

“Soon enough, princess. They’re at the back of our fleet and with the island soon to be under our control, they’ll be safe to dock. There’ll be enough food to feed the people and the army. Fear not.”

_Food paid with the blood of innocents half a world away._  She exhaled.  _If I look back I am lost_. She knew there was enough, there had to be. Lord Tyrion had made sure of it as he worked with men in charge of logistics. It was important but something neither her nor Aegon had interest in, so they let the duties go to ones with a proper experience in the field. “That is good.”  _Do we deserve to sit the throne if we can’t even feed our people?_

After exploring the ruined settlement, they decided to go to the keep. Soldiers were lining the walls with Targaryen banners. Red and black worked much better on a Targaryen castle then green and gold, Daenerys believed.

“So this is Dragonstone,” Aegon spoke as they walked up the narrow ramp. The dragons had gone from the island and were more than likely hunting for food. “If the war didn’t happen, I would have this as my seat right now. When we have a son, this will be his to rule as his own.” 

“Or our daughter,” she gave him a look. They had a daughter, not a son and there was still a war to fight. There was a chance Rhaenys could be their only child.

“Or our daughter,” Aegon corrected himself quickly before smiling. “Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and its surrounding isles. Crown princess to the Iron Throne and heir apparent to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys Targaryen liked those words. “You think the lords will accept that?”

“Prince or princess, I don’t care. We’ve got dragons. We can change the bloody laws. Our daughter is worth more than any boy from another house. In her is the blood of House Martell, a house which has had many women leaders, Princess Nymeria who conquered Dorne, Meria Martell who managed to resist Aegon the Conqueror, not to mention my mother. She also carries the blood of the Conqueror himself, and his descendants. We’ve got our heir. If the Westerosi lords don’t like that, fuck ‘um.” 

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You have an elegant way with words, Egg.”

“I know. I have a lifelong education to thank for that, my beautiful silver dragon.” His fingers touched her chin where he gently tilted her chin up to look at him. Dany couldn’t help herself but look into his eyes that seemed to change in the light. Sometimes they looked black, sometimes purple, other times blue, but they were always beautiful. He kissed her softly. It was slow and sweet and Daenerys felt like she could melt in his arms. He pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. He looked content.

“A shame that wit doesn’t number among your skills, nephew,” she smiled, unable to help herself.

He smiled, barely suppressing a laugh. “And you ruin the moment.”

Daenerys let out a warm-hearted chuckle. “Don’t make it easy and perhaps I won’t. Come. We have a castle to explore.”

At the head of a cohort, they entered the courtyard of the castle. The garrison and all the servants were huddled into a circle with sellswords and Unsullied pointing their spears at them. Daenerys thought it was unneeded, but their soldiers was cautious if nothing else.

Aegon spoke up, his eyeing the bastard of Cider Hall. “Ser Flowers, you’re the highest ranking member of the garrison. I desire to talk to you in the keep.” The bastard knight bowed his head. The rest of the men were looking at the Targaryens with a mixture of mute submission and loathing while others tried to look defiant.

They stepped inside massive dragon’s maw that led them into the castle. The hall was dark, barely lit by the dim torches held by claws protruding from the walls. The bricks were made of black stone that were dry and rough to the touch. It quite frightening to be honest, with all the queer shaped shadows from the many menacing stone creatures. Daenerys looked up at where the banners once would be draped, but there were none. Once there had been Targaryen dragons, and after the rebellion they had been replaced by the crowned stag.  _Now nothing_. The halls were cold and deserted, with the only the sound coming from their footsteps and the howl of the wind outside. It brought back a strange feeling of memories for her. Daenerys shivered.  

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Jorah asked as Ser Donnel Flowers led them to the chamber of the Painted Table, where Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion of Westeros. “You seem cold?”

She was. “I’m a dragon and a dragon is made of fire. A dragon doesn’t feel the cold.” That was what Viserys once told her.

They climbed up the staircase to the top floor of the Stone Drum. It was a round chamber with four tall windows overlooking all directions. The only thing in the room was what gave the chamber its name: the painted table. It was beautifully carved into the shape of Westeros and painted with a master’s hand. It would be overlooked by the master of Dragonstone from atop his raised seat. The painted table had all the towns and cities, with rivers and roads, forests and mountains. With the bay soon to be under their control, they could plan their siege of King’s Landing, retake it from the false king and his mother and return the glory of House Targaryen.

Aegon smiled and ran his thumb across the rough painted wood as he circled, examining it. “Dragonstone is now ours and with this, we’ll make our first move.” He looked up at the Reachman. “I can say we heard some interesting stories before you even arrived here. What of Lord Stannis?”

“I’m afraid I don’t hold much in the way of knowledge of what Lord Stannis has done, my prince,” Flowers said, standing straight, trying to look strong despite the black cloaks standing behind him.

“Indeed. I heard that workers were mining dragonglass, may I ask why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer as to why, my prince. We discovered a mountain of dragonglass ready to be shipped to the wall. Men were ordered to mine the substance for the Night’s Watch.”

“Why the Night’s Watch?” Daenerys asked Ser Jorah who knew more about the North then anyone in the room.

“Princess, I can confidently say the Night’s Watch used dragonglass in its past against the Others.”

“But not the wildlings,” Ser Flowers was quick to add.

“They attacked the wall didn’t they? Under the banner of the King Beyond the Wall, whatever his name was, if he had one.” Aegon didn’t like the north, Daenerys knew only too well. Her nephew was dismissive if he didn’t purposely ignore it.

“Defeated,” Ser Jorah answered, leaning on the table, staring up in the direction of his home. “My father was Lord Commander, and now in his place is the seed of Eddard Stark.” He grimaced. “Exiled from my home because of a handful of poachers. He claimed they should have been sent to the wall, yet came with an army and demanding my head.”

“You’ll get Bear Island back, I ensure you, my lord. So it seems that the line of that traitor hasn’t died, though it may soon. Lady Sansa is now the Lady of the Vale and the last proper Stark.”

“Her children will be falcons and not wolves, but they’ll still be half Stark and therefor hold a claim of Winterfell,” Dany said. “But let’s get back to topic. The Arryns will be important later, our main concern now should be the Lannisters and their ilk.”

Aegon agreed and turned to Flowers. “You know where the mines are and what has happened. Have the operations and shipments ceased?” The former commander nodded. “Good. If Stannis wants something, we won’t give it. It’ll only like to give him an edge up north.”

“Fucking obsidian?” Laughed the bastard of Driftmark. “It’s sharp but brittle and not a material that has much strategic sense. Why is Lord Stannis mining some useless glass?”

Ser Jorah Mormont shrugged his heavy shoulders. “They used them against the Others. It is said that Dragonglass is frozen fire. Used by the children of the Forest and the Age of Heroes. Others were said to be weak to it, where a single slash turned them into water. But why would Stannis want it . . .”

“You think they’ve returned,” questioned Aegon with a cocked eyebrow before rolling his eyes. “The only things beyond the wall is snow and barbarians, oh, but let’s not forget the ever dangerous grumpkins and snarks," His words were dismissive with a hint of humour. “They’re the real danger.”  

Sometimes, Daenerys couldn’t stand how childish Aegon could act.  _Stannis is a cunning man, so there must be a reason for his actions . . . selling? No, dragonglass is mined in Elyria and Tolos in much higher quantities_. There had to be a reason. Daenerys shot a look at Ser Donnel Flowers. “Thank you for the information. We’ll see it that you and your men have decent accommodations and will be fed, I trust that you’ve been hungry?” She didn’t give him time to answer before gesturing the black cloaks to escort him out. “We should send a message to Lord Connington and then sail straight to King’s Landing.”

Aegon agreed with that course of action while Aurane Waters shook his head. “It would be wiser to take control of the other islands around us first. The last thing we need are ships attacking our supplies from isles yet untaken.” He looked down and pointed at the islands controlled by the lordship of Dragonstone. “These. Claw Isle, Sweetsound Port, oh, and most importantly, Driftmark. That’s my rightful lordship, Targaryens, and the price of my co-operation and loyalty.”

_Driftmark, coin, legitimization and to be Master of ships_. Daenerys knew he would ask, and was counting the days by until they gave him what he seeked. “Your nephew is lord of the island at the moment,” she said. The boy was called Monterys Velaryon, a lad of six years. A child who wasn’t old enough to rule, instead relying on a regent. Dany didn’t trust Waters, so she planned to keep the boy as a ward of the crown and possibly have Ser Barristan squire him when he came to age. The boy may loss his lordship, but he deserved to be taken care of.

“For now, princess. But would I be more useful as an ally rather than him? I led men, I led ships. I know how to command.”

_You know how to steal and you know how to turn to the most powerful side_.

“He would be,” Ser Jorah answered. “Having a boy as a ruler, and especially one last of his line is not just risky, but dangerous. Aurane Waters would be much more suitable as lord.” The bastard gave Ser Jorah a nod in thanks but the Northman didn’t reply, instead he stared longingly at his home island. 

Aegon gave his consent and they continued planning their invasion. First they will send ravens to the surrounding islands and ask for them to bend the knee or risk a naval invasion of their lands. After that was done, they’ll move their forces to the capital and plan from there.

That night, sleep didn’t come easy to Daenerys Targaryen. Beneath silken covers, she tossed and turned, dreaming of a man coated in shadows as he stood at the prow of a longship. He had neither lips nor mouth, but he had an eyepatch and an eye like onyx that stared directly at her. He sailed with the speed of a storm and writhing behind him was a wall of tentacles like those of a squid, all rising from the waters that was boiling blood-red and smashing against the hull of the ship were waves as black as ink. His face was cruel and he reached out for her . . .

Daenerys Targaryen sat up, her hair dishevelled, her body coated with a sheen of sweat and the bedsheets were tangled around her form. Sleeping beside her was Aegon, but she felt alone. Dany wanted to wake him, to have him hold her in his arms, help her forget what appeared before her, so she did.

It took more than a few prods to make her husband wake his sleepy eyes. “More night terrors?” her nephew asked, propped up on his side. It wasn’t the first dream she had of similar images, each one just getting stranger and stranger. Dany nodded and Aegon took her in his arms and she nuzzled against him. “Was it the same?”

“No. It was strange . . . not that I can put it into words.” It was bizarre. The dream seemed so real, and not. It had been so vivid she could taste the air and felt sick just thinking about it.

“It was only a dream, you’re safe. It can’t hurt you, sweetling. Just go back to sleep.”

Slept came easier for him then it did for her. Daenerys slept with her back to her nephew, his arms wrapped around her, his body warm against hers. It didn’t bring her any comfort. Every time she closed her eyes, Daenerys could only see that slim figure looking at her with its black eyes and writhing tentacles covered with hooks ready to grab and tear. She only began to drift to sleep when the sun rose from the window. She didn’t realise when she woke except that Aegon had left her side and fresh clothes were waiting for her.

Without Dorah and Missandei, Daenerys Targaryen dressed herself, looking into the mirror to see dark circles underneath her eyes. Taking a breath, she stepped out into the balcony and stared out towards King’s Landing, where the Iron Throne awaited them, just a stone’s throw away.  _The dragons shall return and rule all others. Nothing will stop us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	40. Jon Snow III

The days since leaving the wall had been dark and the journey long.

Jon knew the maps well, but the snow smothered landscape hid much of the land he had been familiar with. The map in his hands was one thing, but the landscape that laid before him was another altogether. He rode at the front of the column that brought with it the rattle of wagons, snorting of horses and elk, barking of dogs and the general chaos that followed the wildlings. As they travelled south, it grew colder and quieter.

They followed the king’s road that led straight to Winterfell, and passing through the Gift. Val stopped him and pointed at a slender tower fallen to ruin. “Is that another one of your castles?”

“It’s a tower. A castle is much larger, and has many towers.” Her curiosity reminded her of a certain girl with red hair . . .

“It looks large . . . though not as large as the wall or the tower you locked me up in.” She smiled and turned to him. “Should I misbehave, would you lock me up again?”

“Only if you do something serious.”

“When I’d better be on my best behaviour . . . or not. You’ll have to force me in there first.” She laughed, tapping the knife she always carried. “Are the castles south larger?”

“Much larger,” Jon answered. “That’s only a tower house, likely the home of some petty lordling, with a plot of land and a few men to serve him. There are castles much larger than that, like Karhold and Last Hearth. Winterfell is much larger than either of those.”  _And those south are larger still_. 

“We never had anything like that up north.” She grinned. “So it seems to me that you southerners are compensating for something.” She cocked her head, a flirty grin playing on her lips. “We’ll have to see if that is the case, shall we?”

The Gift south of the largely deserted Moles Town was littered with farms, whilst settlements were few and far between. Most were deserted and looted for all they were worth. It was something Jon would have to thank many of his former black brothers and the many wildings who migrated south, should he find them. Many settlements, however, contained neither man, animal nor corpse. It was like they were abandoned of all life, while other settlements were populated only by the dead. Under his orders, all corpses that they found were immediately burnt in pyres as a precaution. The settlements that weren’t abandoned, locked their gates to what they saw as a horde going south to pillage and rape. Jon ignored those, knowing they would be more hassle than they were worth. When not civilisation, they passed through endless woods that they used to shelter from the elements. Following them south were powerful winds blowing ice that coated their furs and made Jon freeze to the bone.

Jon ordered they cut off the main road and instead pass through Last Hearth where he asked for aid. There was no lord, for he was held captive at the Twins. Neither was there Mors or Hother Umber who left to fight in the war between Stannis and Roose, but there was a steward. The man grudgingly accepted Jon inside and clearly didn’t like what he saw.  _Traitor_ , _turncoat_ , the man's eyes seemed to say. While the steward didn’t offer any supplies, he did offer men. They weren’t the kind Jon wanted. The ones presented before him were cripples and the maimed, the thieves and the old, the undesirables and the unneeded mouths. None were soldiers, though a few were craftsmen. Jon couldn’t afford to be picky and sent them to the Wall, promising food to those who hungered. They were escorted by a handful of men of the Night’s Watch, but with the storm, Jon doubted many would survive the trip.  _They may even may even desert like so many others_.

For days it snowed without the slightest break in the weather. Where it had once been vast moorlands and hills, before him was vast expanses of snow like it was far north. If anything, Jon wagered that his time north with the wildlings could be considered mild compared to what laid before him. The days themselves grew ever darker and shorter, and hungrier. They brought food with them from the Wall, but that was being quickly diminished in the journey that lasted longer than he could ever imagined. Whenever one of their beasts of burden died, they were not wasted and many ate heartedly.

During a fierce snow storm on their way to Karhold, they were forced to find refuge in an abandoned village. The settlement laid beside a forest and consisted of a few huts, a longhall and a watchtower that must have been used to watch for wildling raids. Now it was garrisoned with wildlings. The storm kicked up in a fierce blizzard, like the gods themselves refused to let them continue. For three days they were stranded. Though the buildings provided shelter from the elements, the structures could only hold a fraction of their number, so many lingered outside, leaning against the walls in clustered groups. It was a volatile situation. The free folk were hungry and cold, causing them to be agitated and more than eager to thrash out at anything. It didn’t help that the dwellings were completely devoid of food. Even Ghost couldn’t find anything. There was a pond, but it was frozen over and they had to use picks to make holes large enough to draw water and throw in fishing lines. They caught no fish and it didn’t take long for the holes to freeze over once more. Hunters and foragers went into the forest and returned with whatever meagre substance they could, but it wasn’t enough.

In the centre of the village, Melisandre and her faithful created a massive pyre. While everyone else dressed in thick winter clothes, Melisandre wore only a thin gown of red silk. Her hair, too, was red and standing before the fire she cut a striking figure. It was little wonder there were wildlings that went over to serve her – the vast majority being Thenns. Most, however, refused to abandon their faith, though they didn’t refuse the heat she offered them.  _It’s not the gods they worship, it’s the flames_. It was no easy thing to warm themselves. People fought to be inside the buildings. One dispute ended with one man from the frozen shore being stabbed in the back by two Thenn's for taking up too much space. That almost caused a fight to break in the camp, where only the intervention of the Magnar and Val kept the peace. Ghost as well. Few were willing to fight a Direwolf, even if they were desperate.

“Do you think the red witch’s god can grant us a single say of peace,” asked one wildling warming his hands beside the pyre. Like many others, he had become victims of frostbite. One wildling had even lost his nose. 

“She wants a sacrifice and I may give her one,” spoke another. “It would be a good enough exchange, should the storm break.”

Jon Snow refused to allow a sacrifice and the storm didn’t break. Any weather Jon Snow encountered before paled in comparison. The winds became a lash as cruel as any officer’s whip, or a scrooge of a slaver. The wind roared like it carried the anger of a dragon. It was the kind that could drive a man mad.

Despite Jon Snow banning sacrifices, the followers of the red god still chanted, their words echoing into the darkness. “The fires are warm, as is R’hllor’s love,” one of the queen’s men had sprouted one day . . . or could it have been night, it had been so dark. Well, it seemed that R’hllor’s love was waning to Jon’s eyes. The massive pyre had shrank to the dismay of the followers of the Red God, but that caused them to pray all the louder. “ _Lord of Light, preserve us from this evil_ ,” they rang out, led by the chants of the Thenn, though Jon doubted they knew the words they sprouted. “ _Show us the bright sun again, still these winds, and melt these snows. The night is dark and full of terrors, but yours is the power and glory and the light. R’hllor, fill us with your fire_!”

While they did that, Jon watched them, sitting alone underneath a thatch roof that didn’t provide as much shelter as he hoped. He usually sat away from the others if he was given the chance, with only him and Ghost, where he could be with his own thoughts after all that had happened.

“Snow,” came Val’s voice. She stood over him with two bowls of stew in her hands and dangling from her belt was a hare, the creature's coat stained with blood. On the other side was a quiver full of arrows. She held one bowl before him. “Here.”

“I’m not hungry.”

You’ve got to eat something. You barely eat anymore. You need to keep up your strength.”

“There isn’t much to eat.”

“You need to.” Val sat down beside him and rustled Ghost’s fur. The direwolf lazily rose his head to look at her before slumping down again. “You may have returned from the dead, but don’t think you’re invincible.” She grinned, if forcibly. “Even with that, I doubt you’ll be able to help fight the Others on an empty stomach.”

Jon Snow looked at Melisandre and her followers who had stopped their chanting and were kneeling before the fire in silence. “I never asked to be brought back.” He never asked to be leading a force of wildlings south the wall, yet he was.

“I never asked to sit beside a kneeler, yet here I am.” She tilted the bowl to the side, tasted the watery substance and pursed her lips. “Needs some honey, then it may taste palatable. My mother said that food that tastes bad makes you strong. What about you, Snow? Your mother give you any sage council?”

“I never had a mother . . .” He knew nothing about her. People whispered that she was a fishwife, a serving girl or even Lady Ashara Dayne, the beauty of Starfall. Jon didn’t know and doubted he ever would. Lord Eddard took that secret to his grave.  _My mother is highborn, beautiful, and her eyes are kind_ , he imagined when he was young. Once he had spent his nights in Winterfell imagining who she was, what she was. But now, it didn’t matter to him as it once had.

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. What’s happened, happened. Nothing I can do to change that.”  _I have more urgent business_. He needed to unite as many people together and protect the wall. Thinking about the past wasn’t going to change anything, nor would it help him. He needed to think about the future, and how to save everyone. But could he though? Many wouldn’t want to cooperate while others would only save their own hide. Everything was easier said than done. Wildlings were incompatible with those south, if they continued their ways. The Thenns were the most like those south the wall, even marrying a daughter of House Karstark. Perhaps more marriages could help relations, but that would only happen if the wildlings abandoned many of their ways and assimilate. But would they? Jon doubted it.

Val looked at him with some sympathy before she looked at the meat. The blonde-haired wildling smiled slyly and changed the subject, “I do desire something that isn’t horse or dog. Perhaps some hare would do nicely, all juicy and tender. Granted, it isn’t fattening, but it’ll cleanse my pallet.” She grinned. “Perhaps I should serve you some?”

“That would be lovely.” Jon looked at the fire that was beginning to die in the cold. While the stew had bits of bread and meat, it was mostly water. The one thing they didn’t lack. Val grinned, pulled out the hare and begin to skin. “Do you need any help with that?”

“I’m perfectly capable of skinning and gutting it myself. You, however, can go fetch some more sticks for the fire, we can’t have it going out, now can we?” She shot him a smile. “Go and hurry up, like a good little kneeler. Go fetch.” She sounded like she was commanding a dog, but Jon relented to her demands and returned with a bundle of sticks. It had been hard trying to find dry firewood. By that time, Val was done and warming her hands above the dim embers. “Took you long enough, southerner.” Jon groaned, threw the sticks on the fire and Val sat up, rubbing her hands together and blowing pale breath on them. 

Turning around, he called, “Ghost, to me.” The red-eyed direwolf stopped digging at the snow where a single leaf poked up. The wolf was hesitant but approached and nipped his hand. Between everything, Ghost had been the most useful, helping to dig the snow as well as help hunters to find prey.

Val stared at the wolf before petting him. “They say that animals with white fur and red eyes are special, that they are touched by the Old Gods.”

He heard that similarly from Old Nan.  _Red and white, the colours of a weirwood_. She said that the seers bonded with them for the bond was stronger. “We did find him south the wall, where direwolves are extinct.”

“We?”

“Me and my brothers. Bran and Robb. We were doing . . .  _business_ , and found them, their mother was killed by a stag.” A warning, he was sure.  _A stag killing a direwolf with six pups, one for each of Lord Eddard Stark’s children._

“They are dead, aren’t they?”

Jon nodded.  _I tried to save Arya only to find that she was false, an imposter_. While Jeyne would be safe in Braavos, the part of hope he had of his little sister being alive was gone. Jon didn’t know about Sansa, but everyone else was dead or likely to be. Robb, Bran, Rickon, father and Arya. Even Lady Stark was dead, and many people he had called friend in Winterfell.  _My younger brothers killed by Theon Greyjoy, the man who shared our bread in the great hall_. Just the thought made him fume.

“My family’s all dead as well. My sister, mother and father. Childbirth, frailness and an axe to the back of the head.” She watched the hare cook, and looked up. “You’re not alone, Jon. Everyone here has lost someone. Siblings, parents and cousins, uncles and aunts. Grandparents and friends. Many have seen their entire families die before them, others their entire tribe. I'm happy you saved him, you know, my nephew. I can't thank you enough for that.” She didn’t need to say anything else and Jon stared into the fire. He removed his gloves and flexed his fingers as they hovered above the heat. She stared at his scarred hand. “Where did you get that?”

He looked down at the scar from where the oil burnt his flesh. “My first time fighting a wight. One managed to get past the wall. We thought it had been a brother who had died by wildlings, but he returned in our Lord Commanders quarters. I was in the cells for trying to desert the watch.” She eyed him, the corner of her lips curving, looking like she wanted to say something to that. “No one else was there so I headed up only to find it. After a struggle, it almost killed me, lamp oil was thrown, burning my hand in the process.” Jon looked at Ghost and rustled his thick fur. “I wouldn’t have been alive if not for you, boy. I owe you.”  _For a lot more than simply that_.

“Must have come to a bit of a shock, to all of you.”

“It was,” Jon agreed. “But after the attack . . .” He paused and looked at her. Val’s face was serene, the kind one could easily talk to. “After the attack, I dreamt.” He didn’t know why he was saying that, but he felt strangely at ease, as if he was removing a heavy rock that had been placed on his chest. “In the dream I fought the same corpse, with blue eyes, black hands, but my father's face.” He could still remember it clearly. The nightmare had returned after Othor had been consumed by flames. A burning corpse of Lord Eddard, blackened and skin bursting, his father’s eyes running down his cheeks. It had frightened him. Jon Snow glanced away, waiting for her reaction. When it didn’t come, Jon added, “What kind of son has a dream of killing their own father?”

“There have been many,” her voice was gentle.

“I’m sure . . . but it’s wrong. My father . . . he did everything he could for me. He taught me like his own  _legit_  son. You may not have taboos north, but where I’m from, it’s different. It was an insult for me to be there, insulting to my father’s wife. I was taught everything I know because of him, he was distant, for sure, but besides that . . .” He felt his hands curl into fists.  _Why would I have such a dream_? He also had dreams of Robb as well, his older brother dying by Jon’s own hand. Just what happened with Iron Emmett was enough to terrify himself. " _You can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell_ ,” Robb’s voice rang in his ears. Jon than needed to be pulled off his black-brother by both Halder and Horse after losing control. Despite everything that happened, he still wanted it. A part of him wanted Winterfell to call his own. He had refused the offer from King Stannis, of course. But the ambition was there, lingering under the surface but ever-present.

“Jon, it was a simple dream, I’m sure. You were consumed by flames, in pain. I heard of your father, I’m sure if those stories are true, he was a righteous man . . . for a kneeler.” She showed a smile at the last part, a smile that put Jon at some ease. “If we’re talking about older men, I will say that I heard that Lord Commander Mormont used a magic sword, before giving it to you. One of your brothers told me, right before offering to show me his.”

Jon snorted. Wouldn’t have surprised him, though he wondered who. “Valyrian,” he corrected.  _Though it could very well be magic_. Valyrian Steel was said to be spell-crafted by the ancient Valyrian Freehold. “I still have it.” He unsheathed the blade. It was a hand-and-a-half sword. A bastard sword.  _Fitting name_ , Jon mused. For as long as he used it, the blade never needed to be sharpened. Lord Stark had drilled into his head about the proper maintenance of his weapons and armour, so Jon did it out of habit. Jon wouldn’t deny he liked the sharp sound it made though when he ran a whetstone along it. It had always been soothing. 

“It’s got a beauty.”

“It has. Rare though weapon though. Only a few houses have them.” Valyrian steel. Dragonsteel.  _Would it be possible to be used against Others?_ Jon turned to Val, “What about you, when was the first time you fought against wights?”

Val clicked her tongue. “When they attacked the grove.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what? You weren’t here, hiding behind that massive wall of yours. You didn’t even know, most likely, or care. It came as a surprise and was not really a fight. They walked towards us . . . those creatures. A few tried to defend the weirwood, but they were cut down like nothing. Have you ever fought an Other, Jon Snow?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t, but Sam did.” Claimed he didn’t he slay the creature, instead it was the dragon glass.

She smiled, releasing a soft laugh. “Who would have thought?”

“I didn’t, and neither did most of the Watch.” Everyone called him 'Sam the Slayer' for that. Some mocking, others sincere. But Samwell Tarly was a humble soul and didn't like the title. He wasn’t a warrior; having neither the courage nor the body. Yet he slayed an Other where others failed to. “But he did.”

Val laughed. “Then this hare is for Sam the Slayer, may he kill more of our common enemy, Lord Snow.”

Jon nodded, glancing at the rest of the free folk laughing and jesting, acting like everything was normal despite the tense atmosphere that lingered above them all. “But what about you. Did you ever fight an Other?”

“No. I’m fortunate they never rose a sword against me. They watched though, as if I was a mere pest to them, unworthy of their notice.” The blonde wildling looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Her face scrunched up. “But I’ve seen those who did fight, and die. The Others fight like it’s a sport, a game. They toy with people like a cat playing with a mouse. They can go straight for the kill, but they don’t. They smile, laugh like it’s a joke. But when they do dance with their swords of ice . . . few can stop them. I’d seen ten men go after  _one_  and it walked away without a scratch and ten new thralls following behind. Pray to your gods that massive wall remains between us and them. Gods forbid it falls, else we’re all dead.”

The next day, and sick of the lack of progress, Jon ordered everyone to march once more. It was agreed that the storm wasn’t going to end any time soon and they needed to keep moving else all would freeze to death. That or butcher each other.

Marching, the Thenns fared the best. Unlike the other free folk – whether the Thenn were seen as free folk was a question Jon was yet to ask – they had their own chieftains and nobility who were commanded by the Magnar. They were obedient, moved quickly and were disciplined. They moved at the front of the column alongside those mounted atop garrons. The small horses were sure-footed beasts that had no trouble in the snow. All the wildlings sported footwear of bent wood and leather straps, strapped to the bottom of their boots. Bear-paws, they were called, allowing them to walk without breaking through the crust and sinking to their thighs. Even the horses had bear-paws, and wore them as easily as normal horseshoes. Their progress was slow, but Jon knew they were faster than they could be.

_I do wonder how Stannis fared . . ._  When that king went, the weather was much better, even if his forces were inexperienced in winter. He did take Jon's advice about the northern mountain clans who sided with His Grace after liberating various strongholds of Ironborn. Their aid would prove useful, but perhaps King Stannis Baratheon was dead before he even arrived at Winterfell, maybe he fell to starvation and cold outside the walls. Maybe Roose and Ramsey crushed the Baratheon in battle. Jon wished for none of those things. It was Stannis’ help he needed most of all. It was only Stannis who could properly aid him after what happened.

The day after the storm passed, they made camp. The encampment was made with a defensive perimeter of carts and wagons forming a circle, with Melisandre’s pyre in the centre.

Val sat opposite him, warming her hands over fire. “So will the castle be as warm as the one in Castle Black?” She was fully clothed in wool and fur, with a heavy hood and cloak. Her face was a rosy pink and melted the snowflakes that touched her skin. “With a blazing fire and warm food?”

“One can dream. Karhold should and then we’ll take a ship to White Harbour.” The most populated region of the north, with a fleet to transport men and supplies to the wall, as well as having enough coin to feed the garrison. Jon Snow knew Lord Wyman Manderly was a loyal servant to House Stark and the White Knife led upwards towards Winterfell, and hopefully King Stannis Baratheon. The Warden of the White Knife was especially important for his various bannermen and landed knights under his command, having not lost a significant number during the war.  _He may even provide some of them to us_. It was unlikely, but that wouldn’t mean Jon wouldn’t ask.

“As long as it’s further south.” Val tried to smile though her teeth were chattering. “Hopefully our journey will lead to much warmer pastures.”

Looking up at the sky, Jon said, “Hopefully it’ll clear up.” While his army could tolerate the cold more than those south of the wall, and the Boltons strength would most likely be in Winterfell, Jon knew that the wildings couldn’t compete with an organised levy even if their equipment had been greatly improved. The wildlings simply lacked the discipline.

“This is no true winter, nor was the storm we pushed through,” Tormund grumbled as he sat down with a heavy thud. All his furs made his girth match his height and he looked more akin to a bear then man. His thick beard only added to the image. “At most it was an autumn kiss. If it was a true winter, we’d all be dead way back.”

“Well, the storm tried its best then, can't deny the effort,” Jon attempted to jest, though not truly feeling up to it. It was cold, it was miserable and he felt angry at their lack of progress. He wanted the procession to it be quicker, he expected it to be, and they were paying the cost.

In the distance, he heard Mellisandre’s prayer, “ _Show us all the bright sun once more, still these winds and melt these snows. The night is dark and cold and full of terrors. Be the power and the glory and light, R’hllor, fill us with your fire_.”

“I’ll fill her with something else, make sure she doesn’t have a stick up her arse, instead something else.” Tormund laughed and wiped the frozen snot formed on his nose. “They ask for a fire god to remove this snow, it’s not that bad. Just take a piss and it’ll melt, and that priestess has enough piss coming from her mouth. Har!”

_Say what you want, but people are drawn to her. They listen to what she says_. Maybe it was just the fire and their circumstances, but Jon could see the faith of the red god growing in the north, especially in the midst of winter. Jon stared at the flames. Many even looked up to him, saying how he was blessed by R'hllor. That created a few allies for him, but enemies as well. “She did offer to help me skinchange.”

Tormund turned to Ghost who was gnawing at a piece of bone that must have come from one of the animals they butchered. The wolf had shredded most of it to bits. “They have their uses. Mance made great use of skinchangers as scouts before leading the attack. Are you capable, lad?”

“I have strange dreams,” Jon confessed, rubbing his gloved hands together. “I do occasionally wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth and as I dream, I regularly envision myself as Ghost.” It only became a lot more common since waking up after his stabbing. The time passed between his stabbing and resurrection was like one long dream. While he laid in the ice cells, he  _was_  Ghost.

Val looked at him with a steady expression. “Than do it. It is a gift from the Old Gods, as was your white wolf. But like all gifts, it has a risk to it. Those who die within the body of their bond animal will remain within it and their mind dulls into that on a savage, where their urges rule them.”

He heard something similar from Old Nan. But much of what she said became muddled and the memories had turned cloudy. _Perhaps I should take her lessons. If it’ll help me fight against the others, why shouldn’t I?_  If the Others fought with ice and snow and cold, why should Jon hold himself back? If the Old Gods did give him a gift, as Val claimed, he should use it to its fullest. It’ll just be another weapon in his arsenal against the Others. "I'll remember the warning. If needs be, it will be done." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I like trying to keep to a schedule, but I didn't like what I originally wrote and had this chapter rewritten a couple of times. Hopefully the next uploads would take shorter. Two more chapters with Cersei and JonCon and then the battle for King's Landing.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	41. The Mad Queen

Cersei Lannister, queen regent of the Iron Throne, mother to the young king, grit her teeth. She had been in the castle sept all day, forced to listen to the chorus of crying women, craven men and whimpering children. Since the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was first seen alongside the huntsman of House Tarly in the distance, the sept had remained crowded, day and night.

Just the thought of what she’d seen made her fume.  _Traitors, all of them_. The Golden Company and their allies encircled the city, flying a thousand banners of different colours. Nearly all of them, Cersei noted, were houses who once sworn her their allegiance, swearing oaths of fealty before the Iron Throne. While she didn’t see a single Tyrell rose amongst them, the queen knew they were somehow involved. They just didn’t dare show their betrayal because Cersei had their precious daughter in her care.

In an attempt to slow down the invading army, Cersei demanded the Alchemists’ Guild set the Kingswood aflame just like the first siege of King’s Landing. The desire was to cut off the Targaryen’s supply of wood for siege engines and any possible game. Cersei also ordered the destruction of the surrounding farms and towns so the dragons would starve as much as those within the city walls. It didn’t work. With full control of the bay and with supply lines coming in from Essos, both pretenders could simply resupply their massive army with their equally massive fleet, crewed and led by the scum of the earth.

She grimaced at the thought of Aurane Waters, or Lord Aurane Velaryon as he liked to call himself now.  _The Targaryens dare put an upstart bastard in the place of a lordly house._  Not that she expected anything else. It was an unpopular decision, she heard. While the disposed lord was a child who was taken in the care of the ones who disposed him, Monterys still had allies who desired him sitting the driftwood throne, not some bastard. In truth, Cersei couldn’t care less of either one of them. She wanted the houses of Dragonstone and its surrounding isles destroyed for turning against her son. Not only did they bend the knee, they added the few ships they had left to the Targaryen fleet.

The entire thing brought back memories of the Battle of the Blackwater. But this time, instead of being ferried away to safety, Tommen was standing beside her, with nowhere to go. They stood at the front of the sept, where an aged septa with the face of a shrivelled raisin prayed aloud, finishing the sermon. Her golden cub stood beside her in a fresh doublet of Lannister crimson, with roaring lions embroidered with golden lace. It was meant to make him look strong, but his face was red and his eyes puffy.  _You shouldn’t cry, this is a not a moment to show fear._ Joff never cried and he fought in the battle like the strong boy he was. Her youngest needed to be strong for once in his life, like a lion and not cower like the stag sewn on the banners throughout the Red Keep.

The septa at the front finished, rose her bony hands in the air as they sang in hundreds of voices, old and gruff, young and gentle, high and low, but they were all sad. In the sept they sang for the Mother to give them mercy, while outside the men manning the walls would pray to the Warrior to survive in the coming battle.

 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war, we pray,_

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day,_

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_Help our daughters through this fray,_

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_Teach us a kinder way._

 

Cersei didn’t sing, instead she stared at the painted glass of the Seven. Around the sept, the statues stared at her with harsh and judgmental faces of stone.  _They pray for mercy from the gods, but the gods have never been merciful. If they did, they wouldn’t have taken my son, my daughter and be after my youngest_. A tear escaped her eye and Cersei rubbed it away angrily. It was thanks to viper’s poison that her gentle cub was dead. Qyburn could do nothing and she lashed out at both him and Jaime who tried to hold her back.  _I’ll kill them, I’ll kill all the Dornish_. Whatever fate she gave them wouldn’t be good enough. The Martells and the Daynes especially deserved to be punished slowly and painfully. Her eyes slightly turned to the whimpering fools who feared the dragons.  _They are right to be scared. Those sellswords would love a good raping_. Many women in this insipid city – especially the haggard septas who took her – deserved that fate. Some within the sept were comely, some were the kinds of women men wouldn’t touch with a long pole, but after some killing and drinking, all would look pretty enough to the army waiting outside the walls.

She didn’t want to be there, in a crowded chamber being forced to listen to an ancient septa, but it fell on the queen regent to do her duty and allow all the women under her protection as their sons and husbands manned and died on the walls and in the streets. If her fool of a brother somehow managed to win the day, everyone would thank her and praise her for being strong and Cersei would say how she never doubted victory, not for a moment. That couldn’t be more false, the queen very much doubted victory. They were outnumbered many times over and another Targaryen forces were yet arrive: the Dornish host marching up the kingsroad, and the force sent to take the isles.

They were fully encircled and Cersei wondered why she just didn’t flee to Casterly Rock when she had the chance. It would be safe there, her family’s home had never been taken by storm in its long history and said to be impenetrable. But they said that about Storm’s End as well, and that fell like so many other castles. If she did flee, everyone would claim the lion fled with its tail between its legs.  _A lion doesn’t flee, it rules. It doesn’t beg, it demands_. Her son was king and a true king never fled. The Red Keep had long proven to be formidable on its own and they managed to beat Stannis Baratheon. She could hold up in Maegor’s Holdfast for a while if need be, and if the gods were good, they would see reinforcements from the Westerland forces. Maybe even the roses . . . it was a farfetched thought. The Tyrells were simpering fools but she had the little filly hostage and if they wanted her to live, they needed to aid her. After all, the Targaryens were vengeful creatures and wanted the head of her son, his wife, as well as all those who stood against their tyranny during the rebellion. She would remain in Maegor’s holdfast and protect her son with her own body, and try to negotiate if need be, but if half of what she heard of the wannabe king was true, she’d have better luck seducing Stannis Baratheon then convincing him to show mercy.

The singing dragged on forever before Cersei was finally allowed to leave. Many ladies decided to follow her like a troupe of ducks, all asking for promises she didn’t want to give. It was Ser Robert Strong who ended the drivel from their mouths by his mere presence. No one did anything Cersei didn’t want in the presence of her most prized guard. Tommen was scared too, but he was taken away by a handmaiden and a column of red cloaks. Cersei left the sept behind, and Strong lumbered after her; each heavy step he took caused the castle to shake.

They crossed the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes currently decorated with the heads of those who threatened the royal family. Traitors all of them. Some were Dornish who had been caught after managing to set a granary alight, others were gold cloaks who tried to flee the city and one tar covered head was of a courtier who tried to stage a coup and open the gates for the invaders outside. Everyone was against her, she knew.

Turning around, Cersei looked outside upon King’s Landing. The sky was thick with smoke from the line of fire that was once the Kingswood, the smoulder merging with the grey sky that looked about to rain, or snow. All the farmsteads, warehouses, homes, riverfront and everything else outside the walls was put to the torch. The smallfolk tried to rebuild after the previous siege but their pathetic efforts were destroyed once more. It made the air taste of ash, and everything stank. Implanted in the ground were a thousand banners of the treacherous houses. Reachman, Stormlords and the crownhouses who personally swore before the king. She grimaced at the sight.

When the Golden Company first appeared, it waited on the other side of the Blackwater. It was only later when the rest of the army appeared, encircling the capital. Jaime said those across the river were only the vanguard. The core of the Golden Company and the Lord Randyll’s force marched upstream to cross at a narrower point before wrapping around at night, bypassing the scouts Jaime had left on watch. She was trapped and left to the mercies of dragons. Cersei had no fleet to halt their advance, so even now was left watching supply ships come and go, each one from the Free Cities and beyond.  _It was like all of Essos has united to place those two spawn on Tommen’s throne_. Her father would never had let that happen, he would have stopped them, and Cersei was Tywin’s heir, the lady of Casterly Rock.  _A lion doesn’t bow to sheep_.

They made their way up the spiral stairs and into another hallway where Lannister guardsmen and Silent Lions in their gilded lion-shaped masks stood guard outside the throne room. Those masked men – or whatever they were – had been useful to her in enforcing the king’s peace within the city. Qyburn was the best she had. He didn’t complain or be disloyal. As long as he had a stream of people going to him, he did what was asked.

Her brother stood in the great hall, armoured in the polished plate of the kingsguard. The white-cloaked brothers formed a circle.  _The white swords of the crippled, the old and the lame_ , Cersei through as she approached. Only Ser Robert Strong would be any use in the battle. Ser Boros the Belly would be the first to die, he looked too weak to stand on his own two feet let alone swing a sword. Ser Meryn Trant was too old, and her own blood was crippled. There were only four left. Ser Balon Swann had been reported killed by Ser Gerold Dayne in Dorne, while Ser Osmund Kettleblack was still imprisoned by the faith. She still didn’t have a replacement for Loras.

Jaime turned to her. There was not a trace of gold or red on his person. Even his face looked as white as the freshly piling snow outside. “Sister,” he spoke tightly to her, though his eyes were focused on Ser Robert Strong. Her brother’s entire posture was defensive. “How wonderful to see you again. What did I do to deserve this honour?”

Cersei glanced at the fools who formed the kingsguard. “You are all dismissed, besides the Lord Commander.” The other kingsguard and other guardsmen left, excluding Ser Robert who was under orders not to leave her side except when she specially told him to. Cersei Lannister knew the lessons from the Sept of Baelor. After the doors closed, it was only the two Lannisters and the giant. “Brother, I trust you have prepared.” The chain was found to be destroyed, no longer acting to hold the ships back.

Jaime nodded, looking half a corpse. “We’re in a tough spot, sweet sister.”

“You finally realised? You must be losing your wits as well, brother.” Her face tightened. “I realised from the banners outside. How many?”

“There are more than twenty thousand currently, maybe thirty,” Jaime informed, his voice grave with their situation. “We only have seven thousand inside the walls. We can’t count on the faith in the defence of this city.”

If anything, the faith would stab them in the back.  _Everything I’ve done for them and they’ll go against their master_. Her father told her that if she gave an inch to servants they’ll bite the hand that feeds them. He was right.  _They’ll face my vengeance soon enough_. “You think they would have fought in the first place? How long can the city hold until our Westerland army arrives?” If the gods were even a little merciful they would allow her armies to come from the west and smash the Targaryen host in the back.

Jaime shook his head. “The Westerlords won’t arrive in time, if they even dare to show up.” He sighed and stared at the Iron Throne, the monstrosity of jagged metal made from the swords of Aegon’s enemies, the ultimate symbol of power in the Seven Kingdoms. It belonged to her children. Her and Jaime. “Perhaps we should surrender . . .”

Cersei couldn’t believe what he dared suggest and her hand slapped against his cheek, leaving a bead of blood from where her nail cut into his skin. “ _Don’t you dare suggest such a thing!_ ” What her brother spoke was treason against their son, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.  _How dare my own blood think of betraying me!_

Jaime touched the blood on his cheek and his face went as cold as father’s. “I will suggest it if it allows our family to survive. You think they’ll be easy on him if we fight? Both you and I know they won’t. If we surrender to the Targaryens, we may be able to come to a compromise.”

“You think they’ll compromise?”  _If so, you’re a bigger fool then I’ve ever known_. They wanted her son dead, Cersei was certain of it. It was all part of Tyrion’s plan. He killed her oldest at his wedding and then her daughter by shipping Myrcella off to Dorne, and now the dwarf was pulling the strings of the Targaryens. Tommen, her youngest, was next.

Jaime’s eyes weren’t looking at hers. He looked defeated, not the Jaime she took to her bed. The brother she had loved wouldn’t have backed down, he wouldn’t have bent the knee. The Jaime she loved would unsheathe his sword and ask if she wanted their heads. Cersei would have nodded and her brother would fight until his last breath. “Cersei, you’ve heard what’s happened. Randyll Tarly has defected from our side, with twenty thousand swords following him. The Dornish as well. The Targaryens themselves have five-and-ten thousand. That’s more than fifty thousand men.” He straightened, his golden hand clanging against his steel plate. “The city is still devastated from the previous siege, and is fractured. There is no way we can stand up to them. That’s not even mentioning the dragons, those three fire breathing monsters . . .”

Cersei was shaking in both anger and frustration.  _How dare he think that_. “You think I would surrender my son’s throne—”

“You think you can surrender Tommen’s life because of your pride?”

She slapped him once more, and Jaime didn’t flinch. “Pride? You think I’m doing it for my pride?” She pointed at her head. “I’ve done it all for them. I suffered for them, I was humiliated for them, before the entire city. I played the most dangerous game in the world for them. You don’t know what you speak, brother. You’re a fool to think that they would just let him live. They’ll kill Tommen because he’s a threat to them, just as how our father killed the sickly Dornish snake and that daughter of hers.” She had dreams of Tommen being led out to one of their dragons before the entire city who all cheered for her son’s death. Inbred monster, they chanted, all the while Tyrion rubbed his beady little hands together while his mismatched eyes stared lustfully at her. Her son, her little lion cub, would be burnt alive and eaten. That was what Targaryens did. Rhaenyra was an example.  _Nothing in the world is more dangerous than a dragon’s wrath_.

“You think Tommen will be spared if you resist?”

“No . . . but you will not lose, Jaime. You will not lose . . . for our children,” her voice was soft. “It’s their birthright to sit the Iron Throne, like the true lions they are.” It was House Lannister that deserved to rule, not the dragons nor the stags. Tommen’s seat on the throne was the one thing keeping him safe from all those wanting his destruction. Jaime stared at her like he was looking at her for the first time. Then he turned and left.  _Craven_. She looked up at Ser Robert Strong, her protector and ever faithful servant cased in the white of the kingsguard.  _He’ll protect my son where Jaime is unable_. 

She ordered Hallyne to be summoned to the great hall while she took her seat upon the Iron Throne. When he entered with some of his fellow alchemists, Cersei looked down upon the man from high above. “Have you done it? Is the wildfire ready?” The Alchemists’ Guild was ordered to unleash their gift which was handed to soldiers on the wall. Under Qyburn’s council, they unleashed weapons as ancient as they were dangerous, like those fire breathing machines of Aegon the Unworthy. When he was hand of the king, her imp of a brother decided they were too dangerous. Cersei didn’t think so, and would unleash everything to defend her child. The Targaryens were sure to break through the fortifications, so Cersei made sure to lay traps within the city.

If anything went wrong, if anything happened to Tommen, she was prepared to take the city down with her. Cersei would not give them the satisfaction of claiming victory on the bones of her children.  _If they want to rule as king and queen, they do so atop the ashes, like proper dragons. Let them rule over charred bones and cooked meat_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


	42. Jon Connington VII

He missed it.

King’s Landing rose behind the Blackwater Rush. It stretched along the shore, forming a square contained within the high stone walls built by Aegon the Conqueror. They were tall and thick, with seven gates and lined with round and square towers. Within would be manses, granaries, brick storehouses, timbered inns and taverns, graveyards and brothels, all built one atop the other. High on Visenya’s hill was the Great Sept of Baelor, built of pure white marble with seven towers capped with crystal. Across from it was the hill named after Rhaenys, on top was the massive ruins of the Dragonpit, still stained black from the dance.

The waterfront had been cleared. That had once been sprawling shanties, brothels, inns and warehouses had been destroyed by the earlier siege and more recently, the Kingslayer. The forests behind them had been burnt until only ash remained, while the surrounding farmsteads had been razed and looted for all they were worth. It delayed him, but hadn’t stopped him.

_Nothing will stop me now_. He was spitting distance from the Red Keep. Soon, Rhaegar’s son would sit the Iron Throne like he was always meant to. He would no longer be a prince, an exile, but a king, crowned and appointed by the High Septon to lead Westeros from the chaos of the usurpers reign.

Currently, only half of the Golden Company surrounded the capital. The other half had been sent to forage for supplies as well as capture the surrounding castles and towns such as Rosby, Duskendale and others. Both had quickly surrendered and according to the riders sent back, one had been taken by an upstarted sellsword named Bronn who had married the lackwit lady of House Stokeworth. The idea of a lowborn sellsword with no claim rising to a lordship was disconcerting, but Jon had to ignore it. It seemed to be the way of things nowadays. Both Aegon and Daenerys were handing out lordships to all sorts of people, regardless of their birth. Many were bastards, of lowbirth or with feeble claims of ownership. He didn’t like it. Rosby meanwhile, was commanded by a Frey who had relations with House Rosby. Olyvar Frey, Jon believed. Little more than a squire and became the late lord’s ward after the North surrendered.

While that was going on, Lord Jon Connington had to contend with dealing with the various lords and the Golden Company. While the sellswords were all well-disciplined, there were a few occurrences of breaking the future king’s rules of war and those found guilty were gelded or hanged. It didn’t make Jon Connington popular, but he wasn’t looking for friends.

The Hand of the true king turned to Lord Randyll Tarly, having switched sides on the Kingsroad. All the commanders and officers stood in the command tent. Lord Tarly was a lean and balding man, with a bristly short beard of grey-hair. He wore heavy mail and his Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane strapped to his back. When their armies met, Jon Connington had set up his exhausted army up for another battle, one he doubted would be won. But instead of offering battle, Lord Tarly offered his sword as well as his twenty-thousand strong army made up of a collection of Riverland, Stormland, Reach and Crownland houses. Not the most loyal group but many were battle-hardened veterans that were exactly what Jon needed.

“What is the news of our camp?” Jon asked as he looked at the layout map of the capital. The city was strong and was made to last a siege, but his scout’s reported that it never truly healed after the Battle of the Blackwater. The Mud Gate not being properly repaired, for one.  _A good ram will batter it down within moments_. The defenders, Jon was unsure about. From what he remembered, the gold cloaks dealt with public order, not sieges, and Connington doubted they'd improved since. They still proved a threat though, even the worst trained man could hold out against an army whilst standing atop a wall. While the gold cloaks effectiveness was uncertain, the one force that concerned Jon Connington was the Kingslayer’s army that had returned from the torn Riverlands. Veterans all of them.

“The men are still fortifying their position around the Iron Gate, Dragon Gate and the Old Gate,” Tarly informed him. “It doesn’t help that our force is split because of the river. Just makes it easier for the Kingslayer to send out sorties against us. I’ve already lost a hundred of my own men.”  

_Aegon and Daenerys will come shortly, as will the rest of them._  “We just have to wait for the others before we storm the walls.” It was a risky strategy and unadvisable against a city, much less one of this kind, but they had dragons and superior numbers, not to mention better soldiers.  _The city will fall. It’s just a matter of time_.

Jon received word that the Dragonstone garrison surrendered as soon as the dragons appeared with the Targaryens on their backs. The rest of the islands were secured with the naval might of Lord Aurane and the pirate captain Cosomo. Already, part of that fleet was blockading the capital from sea, using the heavy artillery pieces atop the dromonds to smash the towers, while the lumbering transports and the Targaryens themselves were yet to arrive. While that portion of the army was coming from sea, the rest were marching up the kingsroad. Black cloaks, sellswords and the Dornish. It was taking them long enough, especially with the Golden Company clearing the way.

Homeless Harry shook his head as he sat at the table, a glass of Dornish wine half empty beside him while his feet soaked in salted water. He couldn’t look less of a commander in that moment. “The city is well protected. If we storm the walls, we’ll suffer high casualties. What about the Red Keep? It’s considered to be impenetrable, and the holdfast—a fortress within a fortress.”

“Storm’s End was said to be impenetrable, yet we captured that. Dragons were extinct, yet they have reappeared. King’s Landing will fall. King’s Landing only has one ruler and that is House Targaryen.” It was so close, and he had waited so long.  _I’ve made it, my prince. Your son will sit the throne in short time_. “When our prince and princess arrive with the rest of the army, prepare for the attack.” Against their overwhelming force, Jon Connington expected the garrison to throw down their weapons when the dragons come, and the gates would be thrown open from their supporters inside.

“But that doesn’t mean we’ll face difficulties,” the captain-general of the Golden Company said, taking a sip of his drink. “We need a plan. What we should do. It is all but certain that cavalry will be ineffective in this kind of battle. All infantry. Leave the cavalry out of it.”

“Oh, what a shame. I really wanted to see how Essosi cataphracts fared in urban warfare,” mused a lord who came with Lord Randyll Tarly, with a sardonic smile on his lips. 

“Not well,” Harry confessed. “The defenders would certainly have barricaded the streets. They’ll want to funnel us through traps and kill-zones, ambushing us and destroying our advantage of numbers. They know this city, not us.”

Jon Connington couldn’t disagree. Urban combat was little more than a blood bath on both sides. It brought back memories of the battle of the bells.  _Those cursed bells . . ._  “What about the elephants, how will they be used?”

“Mostly for parade,” was Harry’s answer. “That'll be how they are used within the city. Unless you want them to act as a living battering ram? No. Elephants won’t be good for this. They’ll be stuck in the streets and would certainly panic. Not to mention, their size makes them an easy target for anyone on the roofs.”

“The elephants have been useful for dragging supplies, and wood for the siege engines. But bloody hells, they eat a lot,” commented Gorys Edoryen.

Tristan Rivers bobbed his head. “Elephants, may be smart and fine looking creatures, but they aren’t that practical when you think about it. They panic, they can turn around and trample our own lines as has happened in history. With the wildfire, I doubt they’ll remain calm.”

Jon Connington looked around the table of the crowded tent. “We should attack the walls at the same time. Dragons will limit the archers on the walls and to further that, our siege engines and archers will lay down a barrage of supressing fire.”

“But the wildfire . . .”

“Is a threat we will have to counter quickly. That is why we should strike fast and strike hard. If the garrison had any wits, they would have placed their stockpiles on the walls, not the city proper. So when the walls are ours, that threat should be out the way.”

Frankyn Flowers shook his head, looking even worse for wear after fighting against the Tyrells. “We’re not dealing with a sane, logical actor. We’re dealing with Cersei fucking Lannister. You hear half the stuff she’s done and you’ll know we’re not dealing with someone with an ounce of common sense.”

Jon disagreed. “That is good. Sane logical actors think and therefor are dangerous.”

Lord Randyll just had to disagree and spoke up. “You can predict what someone sane will do. You can’t predict a fool. In my line of work, the fools are the most dangerous.”

They continued talking about the taking of King’s Landing as well as supplies and the protection of the camps from bandits and future sorties. The talk about logistics was in the hands of the captain-general. While Harry wasn’t a brave man by any means – if anything, he was a craven – Jon Connington couldn’t fault the man with organising. When it came to logistics, the Golden Company was sublime. As much as Jon hated to admit it, that was more likely to win the war than dragons.

When all was said and done, Jon Connington retired to his tent, taking a longer route to inspect the trebuchets, siege towers and rams being constructed. With the ground being little more than mud and snow, the siege towers would be next to useless. Regardless, it was more for show to intimidate the defenders. Jon knew of the various actors within the walls: the Sparrows, Nymeria Sand and her Dornishmen, the Lannisters and the Tyrells. Not to mention the Spider who has been busy working behind the scenes like the slippery creature he was. From the messages Jon received, the environment inside was chaotic thanks to the various factions fighting in the streets. Connington didn’t want the madness to continue when the city was finally theirs and would act accordingly. All the Lannister and Tyrell loyalists would have to be dealt one way or another, Tommen, Cersei, even Margaery, in order for Aegon’s reign to be secure. 

When he entered his tent, Jon striped out of his armour and sat down by the bed, looking at the disfigurements that marred his skin.  _Marks of war and battle_. Some he remembered from serving in the Golden Company, others he had gotten recently. There will only be more. Large portions of the Crownlands were largely under the dragon banner but much of Westeros still needed be reclaimed. The Reach was in a state of war between the Tyrells who stood against both the Ironborn and many rebellious houses supported by Dornish forces. Reports stated that Highgarden itself was under threat of siege and the Ironborn were attacking the coast, with Oldtown having repulsed multiple raids. The Riverlands – who were already bloodied – were fighting a Frey civil war with many of the bannermen refusing to participate. Only to make things worse, the Vale was mobilising for war. Whether the falcon would go south or west, Jon wasn’t sure. With all that happening, little news flowed from the Westerlands and the North so Jon didn’t know what was going on there.

When he removed his garments, the Lord of Griffin’s Roost sat on his bed and remembered back to the first time he saw King’s Landing. It was when King Aerys and Queen Rhaella were touring the Seven Kingdoms. Connington was just one of the many squires who surrounded the prince and yearned for his approval. The first time he saw the capital, he was amazed. It had been so different from the Stormlands where he’d been born and raised.

“The sight may be beautiful, but the stench will get you soon enough,” Rhaegar said, staring longingly at it, and Jon felt a fool for bragging about the sights around Griffins Roost to a prince would rule everything from Dorne to the Wall. Rhaegar turned around, his dark eyes were easily his most striking feature. “I’m sure you’ll get used to it.” While Jon laughed, Rhaegar didn’t. Smiles and laughter didn’t come easily to the Prince of Dragonstone, who spent most days in a sullen mood. It just added to the allure in many maidens eyes, especially when he played his harp and sang those melancholic songs.

With Rhaegar once again on his mind, the lord looked back at the prince’s wedding. That had been a splendid affair, with the wealth of Dorne being thrown about before the rest of the Seven Kingdoms as a show of strength. Even while he had his arms around Princess Elia, Rhaegar’s dark eyes still were cheerless, though few would believe it as he fed his new bride morsels from his own a knife. Drunk on the finest wine in the kingdoms, Jon Connington was laughing and acting the fool. He didn’t care though. It had been a large wedding with almost all noble lords except the king and young prince Viserys in attendance.

_No one knew that the king would become_ , Jon thought, remembering back.  _Eccentric, but not insane_. It was the Defiance of Duskendale that set King Aerys off. He wasn’t a nice man before that point, but it was when he was captured that he fell into his descent of darkness. During that, Connington was standing near the prince before the walls. Lord Tywin stood beside Prince Rhaegar and when ordered to abandon the siege or risk the king’s death, Lord Tywin – who was just as ruthless then – shouted back, “You may kill the king. But we have another right here.” Jon didn’t know what Rhaegar was thinking for he said nothing, showing no emotion. It was like the prince’s mind was elsewhere.

Another memory crossed his mind, later, after the rebellion when Jon was handed Rhaegar's son to his care. “Tell me about my father,” Aegon once asked as he sat atop his bed in Pentos, thin arms wrapped around his knees. He stared at his foster-father with wide eyes.

_Purple eyes, the eyes of his father_. “Your father was among the best of them,” Jon would say, sitting at the boy’s side. The lad once loved to hear stories of his father. “He was the noblest, kindest and wisest person I knew. A true prince, like those from the stories.”  _I wanted more. I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell._  The exiled lord’s words were soft. “He was skilled with sword and lance. Beating Ser Arthur Dayne at the tourney of Storm’s End and later Harrenhal, as well as other renowned knights like Ser Barristan, Ser Gerion and Tygett Lannister. With the lance, he was unstoppable. But no man could equal his skill with the harp, or the lyre. He was a true friend, the best I could ever hope to have.”

The young prince nodded, looking disheartened. “Am I like him . . . in any way?”

Jon had looked him over. Aegon had the silver hair and purple eyes, a shade lighter than his sire. “Of course you are.” Aegon beamed at that.

In later years, the differences and similarities were more easily identifiable. He was tall like his father and had the same lust for knowledge. Aegon especially loving his histories, more so then his sire who instead preferred reading myths and legends and tales of magic. While Jon taught his ward the harp and could play it competently, it fell out of favour later on in his life, though would be more than willing to do it for Daenerys whenever she requested. Aegon knew how to use the sword and other weapons like the hammer, axe and spear, but he was not as good as Rhaegar. No one could be.

It was early morning when both Aegon and Daenerys appeared on their dragons.

Lord Jon Connington stood on the shore with the commanders of the Golden Company. Seeing them once more, he couldn’t help but break into a smile. The fleet from Dragonstone was disembarking men onto the shore. “Prince, princess,” Connington went on his knees as did the others. The lad was atop of Balerion while Princess Daenerys on her silver dragon, patting the creature’s head. While they both wore armour, the prince in his black plate looked very much a conqueror.  _If only your father could see the man you’ve become_. Rhaegar would have been proud. Licking his lips, he said, “Your Graces, I heard that Blackwater Bay is under our control, as is Dragonstone.”

Aegon nodded and removed his dragon shaped helm. “Dragonstone was different from what we expected, but it fell quickly enough.” He turned to King’s Landing and victorious grin faded. “They surrendered and opened the gates. Now we control all the surrounding islands.”

“It was beautiful, but at the same time, strange,” Daenerys continued. “The castle wasn’t like anything we’ve seen before. The Black Walls of Volantis are the closest . . . but that was simpler. Dragonstone is unique.” She smiled warmly. “The dragons love it, of course. As do I, if not for the smell.” 

He never liked the idea of the little princess being involved, even if she rode a dragon.  _She should have waited in Essos, returning with Rhaenys when the war’s over_. As a knight, Jon had been raised to protect women. Despite Targaryen princesses being involved in battle, the act of them fighting was unnatural. The only fight a woman should be having was in the birthing chamber.  _She’ll be in the air_ , he tried to reason,  _not the ground_. But she could be shot down. Archers swarmed the walls, and on the other side of the wall were trebuchets, their long wooden arms just noticeable, while ballistae waited on the wall and towers above the city.

“So this is King’s Landing,” Aegon said shortly after she finished. There was longing in his voice as he stared up at the Red Keep. “My lord, how do you presume we take it?”

Jon looked at the prince.  _He still hasn’t seen sense. He’s still a boy playing at war_. “We take it in the usual way. At various points we attack with rams and siege ladders, with the Unsullied acting as the vanguard. We launch an amphibious attack upon the River Gate that is still weak. I’m sure the dragons of yours can work well liberating the walls of archers.”

“That’s how we take the city. But what of the Red Keep?” 

That was a good question. While the city was warred over by various factions, some more sympathetic to the Targaryen’s then others; the Red Keep was almost entirely under the control of Lannisters and Tyrells. The Lady Nym may still have her Dornishmen, but they were in the city. A few times he could see smoke plumes rising behind the stone walls so he could only guess the chaos inside. “We have dragons and will take the city. The garrison may surrender, or the Lannister queen.” The lad didn’t look convinced. “My prince, shall I introduce you to the newest additions to your army.”

“I saw banners. May I ask who they are?”

“Lord Tarly and the forces under his command: twenty thousand of them.” Both Daenerys and Aegon looked at each other and shared a thin smile. “Numbering among them are House Mooton, House Leygood, Fossoway, Ambrose. As well as some other houses of the Riverlands. Not to forget Crackclaw Point: Bogg, Brune, Cave, Crabb, Pyne and Hardy.”

“Houses of dubious loyalty,” Daenerys responded coldly.

“Some of them may be, but the houses of the Crackclaw Point fought with your father, princess, and proclaim they only serve the dragon,” Jon replied as the black dragon stared at him with those bright red orbs. “Regardless, their lords and heirs will still want to meet you both. All have given you their swords and oaths of service. It would be wrong not to meet them.” Both Targaryens agreed with the course of action and Jon sent men to collect everyone.

Soon, all the houses that defected to the Targaryen cause stood outside the command tent. One by one, all the lords, the great and the small, bowed before the two Targaryens standing in front of the three dragons. It was a beautiful image, in a way, the silver-haired youths standing before everyone, their red cloaks and silver-hair blowing in the breeze. They couldn’t look more like royalty.

The prince surveyed at the lords before him, many in plate and chainmail, their numbers boasted by knights and common soldiery. Jon knew many of them were scared. If they made the wrong move, they could be burnt to a crisp. They knew that, and the Targaryens knew that. Fear cuts deeper than swords, the Braavosi saying went. 

“I am Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia of Dorne. You may have heard I was dead, you may have believed I was killed during the sack of King’s Landing. That is not the case. It was a lie, a deception to ensure my protection against a vengeful usurper. I have returned, my wife Daenerys has returned. The dragons have returned. Over there, behind those cursed walls lies the usurpers. Bastards born of unholy union of brother and sister outside the bed of marriage.” The prince unsheathed Blackfyre and rose it above his head. The dark steel gleamed against the fires in the camp. “I ask only two things from you, my lords. Your swords and your loyalty. It is a question to ask, I know. Some of you fought against Lord Baratheon eight-and-ten years ago, others on his behalf. Some of you fought on the Trident, others at Bronzegate or Ashford. Many for reasons, I can’t fault. Others may never have seen battle. Regardless of that fact, right now I need you. We need you. Fight for Westeros, fight for a united Seven Kingdoms. In such a short time, this land we call home has bled a hundred times. Under the watchful eyes of the dragon, there was peace without the realm breaking itself apart. The Lannister queen, should she continue to rule and pull the strings of your fate, there will be no peace, only struggle from dawn to dusk.” His voice rose. “Lords of Westeros, valiant captains. Men of the Riverlands, the Stormlands, Crownlands and the Reach, exiles and warriors of Essos. Those that reside in castles, and those that shelter under tents and hedgerows. If you stand with us, and have the guts to fight like true men, history will prove us victors in the hour of battle. I will not ask all of you to throw away your lives needlessly, but I expect all of you to do your part. Victory will be your reward when the three-headed-dragon will fly from those battlements. The Seven will it. They guarantee victory.”

To that, there were cheers and as if on que, the dragons roared and the crowd backed away. It was then, the Targaryens demanded owes of fealty. That took the greater part of the day, with each lord stepping forward, dropping their swords and vowing to support them in the battles ahead.

It was that night, whilst they were feasting, the news came. Both Daenerys and Aegon had stripped from their armour into wool and silks. On behalf of the future king and queen, as a sign of reward to those who shed blood, all the men received extra rations. Connington could see it worked wonders for the soldiers’ morale as they drank, sang and feasted, in clear view of the starving city. He sat beside Homeless Harry, who rattled on about the coming siege and the possible casualties. Jon didn’t listen and instead watched the Targaryens as he slid a piece of meat on his plate. Of food there was more than plenty thanks to Essos and its vast estates– most around Pentos. For starters there was creamy soup, all white and foamy. The main course was small delicate fish, crabs, oysters, boar roasted in honey and spices, and loaves of bread still steaming. It was excessive, he thought but it showed what kind of power they had to their men and lords. That wasn’t the mention the guards on the walls watching the festivities below.

As everyone ate, a musician played a tune on a harp.

 

_Are you going to Tarth tonight?_

_Sapphires shine upon the moonlight,_

_Remember me the one who lives there,_

_For you’ll be the true love of mine._

 

It was the same song Rhaegar had played in the tourney of Harrenhal. The one that brought nearly all the women to tears. The musician, however, wasn’t nearly as good.

The future king sat atop of a makeshift dais, with his future queen on his right hand side. The empty seat to his left was rotated between the various lords who spoke to him. The first was Homeless Harry, but he had returned red faced when the lad saw little need with Harry’s caution. Afterwards it was Lord Rowan, then Lord Tarly, Aurane, Cossomo and others. Sometimes it was talking about the campaign, others it was just telling jests depending on who it was. When they weren’t, the lad was chatting with his wife. Both he and Daenerys were smiling and happy, feeding each other choice morsels of cheese, olives and snail off the point of their knives. On occasion, the prince would lean over and plant a tender kiss on her cheek. They did look happy together.  _At least they get that before the battle_. Jon could only imagine the kind of damage the dragons would cause.

“Milord,” came a voice from beside him. Jon turned to see a man of the Golden Company. “The Dornish and the rest, milord, they’ve finally arrived.”

_Took them bloody long enough_. The lord nodded and took a gulp of his wine. It was a fine vintage and strong. “Inform the prince and princess. They’ll want to hear it.” He strode to the break in the perimeter ditch. Lord Connington did hate the ground and weather, it was mud and snow, terrible for an army. Before him were all the banners. The Martell’s spear piecing a red sun, Yronwood gate, Dayne sword and star, a leopard, vulture, a black adder biting a heel, and much more.  _It’s like all the houses of Dorne have come_. As they should.

Shortly after that, Daenerys and Aegon approached, trailed by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Rolly Duckfield. Aegon was smiling from ear to ear whilst the little princess looked pleased even though she wasn’t smiling. “Greetings, my lords” the Targaryen prince called, his voice slightly slurred. He turned to the sellsword captain at front. “Ser Valarr.”

“Happy to see you once more, Your Grace.”

_Happy to be here before the city is looted more like_. Jon studied the ones in front. All the Dornish wore plated mail and their silks was painted in their house colours. Lord Connington had been taught of the Dornish’s queer customs and that they were the ancestral enemies of the Stormlands, who would raid northwards from the Marches and return their plunder to the savage deserts where they resided. He bowed his head and introduced the royals and then himself. The Dornishmen gave a patronising nod.

It was the rider on the right who introduced everyone. He was a handsome man, even for the lazy eye. ”I am Ser Cletus of House Yronwood, prince-consort of Dorne, husband of Princess Arianne Martell. May I introduce you to my cousin, Ser Archibald Yronwood,” he gestured to a large man with broad shoulders and a shiny bald head, “And this, Targaryens, is Prince Quentyn Nymeros Martell. Son of Prince Doran Martell and Lady Mellario of Norvos.” The prince of Dorne was a stocky lad, with a thick build, plain face, brown hair, brown eyes and a short stubble on his cheeks. His expression solemn and dutiful, not the kind that allowed smiles to come easily.

_An honest face_.

Aegon bowed his head respectfully. “It is an honour to finally meet you, cousin. I only had the fortune of hearing of you from your dear sister.” The Martell prince nodded, shyly. He dismounted his Dornish sand steed and was about to go on his knees but Aegon stopped him and smiled. “No need for that, Prince Quentyn. I’m sure you don’t want to get soaked.” While a few of them laughed, the Martell didn’t, if anything he just looked awkward. “Come inside the camp. There is much we can talk about, and eat at the same time. I’m sure it’s been a long ride from Dorne. You must all be hungry.”

“It was a long ride, it must be said,” the prince consort replied, dismounting his own mount with so much more grace that his good-brother. “I thank you for the offer, Prince Aegon. I finally have the honour of seeing two dragons before my eyes. A sight to see. Your Grace, you have my sympathy for what happened to your mother, and sister. Their fates enraged Dorne.”

_But not the father_ , Jon fought back a grimace. Prince Rhaegar was their prince, would have been their future king, yet they dismissed him without as much as a mention.

“I heard she was much loved,” Daenerys said, clutching her husband’s arm. “The flower of Dorne, I am told.”

“She was . . . that was what my father said,” the plain-faced prince said, his voice quiet. “I’m afraid to say I never had the fortune to meet her. I was only a babe when she died to the likes of the Mountain.”

“It was a blessing from the Seven Above that he met his end to face judgment,” Ashara Dayne said, in a lilac dress. Her dark-hair was done and she looked younger and happier than Septa Lemore in Essos. “I pray the Father judges him truly and that he freezes in hell for all time.”

“Many do,” Daenerys interjected. “Please come in, my princes and lords. We’re in the midst of the feast. Just a shame you didn’t come sooner.” She smiled, and it was easy to see why the lad had been smitten. “Please come and enjoy yourselves. I’m sure there is still enough food, and if not, well, our servants can always cook more.”

Quentyn didn’t move, instead he gestured for his companions to pass him a small box of cedar wood. Though told not to, he dropped to his knees. “My prince, my father requested I present this gift to you.” Aegon glanced at Daenerys before he hesitantly opened it. Jon’s eyes widened at what laid inside. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror, the very one that was lost in Dorne by Daeron the Young Dragon. A crown of Valyrian steel with square cut rubies. “The crown of Aegon the Conqueror himself. It now belongs to you, the son of my aunt, Princess Elia Targaryen nee Martell.”

The lad looked surprised, as much as Daenerys. Then his expression turned to a pleasant smile. In his procession was the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, a black dragon and now his crown. Aegon gently took the crown like he was scared to touch it. Daenerys was smiling and the prince placed it atop his head. “Stand, coz. You shouldn’t kneel to me, even as king. We’re both princes of Westeros and the Dornish are always welcome here and at court.” The Dornish prince nodded and stood up, where Aegon clasped him and pushed the shorter man into a short-lived hug. Aegon turned to Ser Cletus, his lips curving into a grin. “And likewise to you, newest cousin of mine. When the beautiful Arianne is ruling princess, of course.”

That caused a soft chuckle from the Dornish and Cletus smiled, saying it would be an honour.

Daenerys smiled, once more looping her arm around that of her husband. “It was a splendid gift, Prince Quentyn. Both me and Aegon very much thank you for returning back what once was our ancestors. Though I can’t help but wonder why. Surely it was a mark of victory against our ancestor. You didn’t give when Dorne joined the fold in marriage. Why return it now?”

Prince Quentyn went red. “I-it was kept as a prize after the Young Dragon’s invasion . . . Your Grace. My father believed it was time to return what once was yours. It was to be given to Prince Rhaegar, once he took the crown . . . but that was before the tourney. With Rhaegar dead, the gift will pass on to his son and heir. A dragon of Dornish blood.”

“But don’t think that is the only gift we’ll offer you,” quickly added Ser Cletus. “We wouldn’t forget the future queen, or the mother of dragons.” He chuckled, followed by some amused chatter. He called someone and soon, a beautiful silver horse was brought forth from the column. It was a sand steed, a young filly with a beautiful silver coat and a mane like snow. Spirited and splendid, it looked to be a worthy gift.

“She’s beautiful,” the princess said, her mouth slacked for a moment before she closed it. The horse was led to her and she delicately felt the coat. The horse silenced immediately at her touch. “You have my deepest thanks.”

“She’s the pride of my house’s herd,” the Yronwood declared with a wide smile. “Custom decrees that a queen should be mounted and not walk, especially in this weather. You may ride a dragon, but sometimes you need a horse. So Arianne and myself thought it would only be fitting if it was a Dornish stead she mounted. No other beast would do you justice.” He chuckled and Daenerys gave a small smile. Once more, she thanked him.

_Aegon’s crown and fifteen thousand spears. Let’s just hope that they prove better than at the Trident_. For his doubts on the skill of the Dornishmen, Jon Connington knew they’ll be more loyal then the sellswords that filled the army. He escorted the many highborn to the feast where they drank and sang. Laughter and jests came easy to ones like Ser Gerris Drinkwater and the future prince consort of Dorne, but not to the Dornish Prince who looked nervous whenever Princess Daenerys asked about his home. Jon Connington had never seen Doran’s first son but had expected him to look more like his uncle: tall, handsome, with a lust for adventure and coupling. _He is more his father. Sober and dutiful, not the kind to make a woman’s heart beat faster._  That being said, both Daenerys and Aegon were treating him like family who have finally been reunited.  _It’s the closest they have besides each other_.

When the deserts were brought out, Lord Connington took his leave and went to his tent. With the taking of King’s Landing to commence soon, he needed to get up early. With their armies finally united into one, the time is better than ever.

“My lord hand,” came a soft and effeminate voice from within his tent. Jon Connington flinched, his hand already on the handle of his sword. He sighed and proceeded inside with caution. The eunuch sat atop the chair beside the bed in a robe of undyed wool and a fake beard. A disguise awfully similar to the one in the Golden Valyrian. Jon body tightened as he stared at the Spider who smiled that sly smile of his. “How good you to have returned this fine city, my dearest lord. I must confess that many times since we parted, I was worried and have prayed for your sweet return.”

“You care not for me, Spider,” Jon growled.  _You took my pride and honour. I may yet regain it, but you took it_. When everything was done, when Aegon and Daenerys sat the Iron Throne as king and queen with their reign secure, Jon would find Varys and crush him like the spider he was. “What do you want?”

The plump-faced-creature tittered. “Oh, so much you have achieved. Rally Dorne and many houses to your cause, the Golden Company, Unsullied, but above all, dragons. I am very much impressed with what you and your wards achieved.”

“I care not for your false praise.” Jon didn’t care what admirations Varys sang for they always tasted bitter coming from him. “Just tell me why you’re here—how did you get out the city?” He sneaked Aegon out, so it would make sense for the Spider to come and go as he pleased, even if the city was besieged or being sacked.

“The same route you’re all going to get in.” That caught Connington’s attention. “King Maegor created tunnels and secret passages all throughout the Red Keep and the city. When I was still serving King Aerys, I learned of these routes and where they lead.”

_You sneak our army inside the Red Keep, bypassing the walls._ He almost smiled but didn’t.  _They’ll be too busy looking at the army to notice a small force within the Red Keep. But only a small force_. Jon was sure they would hear a larger one.  _Clever eunuch_. Jon could use this to orchestrate a two way attack into the city and keep. While their main army distracts the garrison, the Red Keep will be taken by surprise with the usurpers being captured. Not only that, but with the keep being cut off, the garrison in the city will have to surrender with nowhere to retreat to. “Good, the Red Keep needs to be taken and you have given us a way. One more thing, Spider. What of the city itself? What of the Sparrows and the Tyrells, the Lannisters?”

The eunuch tittered. “All at each other’s throats, as was planned. If anything, it exceeded my expectations. But what do you expect when their alliance was built on quicksand?” Varys giggled. “After much persuasion, I convinced the smallfolk of our two dragons, and the High Sparrow. An army stands inside the walls, answerable only to the faith. If not publicly, his High Holiness considers Aegon the true king and will open the gates on the condition that the smallfolk won’t be hurt. The memories of the Lannister sack are still fresh in the minds of the people.” Jon nodded, not that he planned to allow it anyways. The last thing the both of them needed was to be seen as sackers like in Slaver’s Bay. “The Dornishmen under Nymeria Sand have been a great asset. A snake she is, so much like her father. Her men have been killing Tyrells and Lannisters and setting them against each other like hungry dogs. Not to mention riling the people.”

“You will do well to tell them of this.” Jon wondered how Aegon would react to the eunuch that ferreted him away, but not his mother and sister. He feared that he may get angry. The lad had been drinking and he tended to loss himself when in his cups. “But after the feast.” That way, it wouldn’t cause a problem. Not to mention that few people trusted the Spider and many would want to split his head from his neck. Jon Connington numbered among that group.

“No one likes a eunuch, I’m afraid.” Varys looked sorrowful. “I will do so.”

_And I’ll prepare the officers_. The former-and-likely-future Master of Whispers bowed his head and left the tent silently as a ghost. Sooner or later, the eunuch would get what was coming to him. The Spider still had his uses, of course, but when those ended, Jon would be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems a few things that happened this chapter. Next will be the Second Battle of the Blackwater and likely to be a fairly long chapter.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. I very much appreciate it.


	43. Second Battle of the Blackwater

Jaime

It was the horn that alerted them the battle was to begin.

Jaime stood atop the walls, his side pressed against a merlon as he watched the besiegers press forward. Once, he would have been eager for battle, to soak his sword in the insides of his enemies. But now, he was just tired.

The numbers trampled forward, thousands upon thousands of armoured fighting men. The sounds filled the crisp morning air, growing louder and louder as they approached. There was no doubt the Targaryens wanted this city and would fight for it with sword and shield and everything they've got.

_Curse them. Curse what she had done_ , Ser Jaime Lannister thought, grimacing. If Cersei had put away her pride and delusions, he wouldn’t be commanding this battle. He stared at the army assembling to match his in battle. Watching them march forward with their banners wavering in the wind, alongside the steady beat of thousands upon thousands of booted steps that brought with it a strange hypnotic effect. The drumming and trumpeters echoed through the sky. Jaime tried doing what he could to even the score before the battle even began. He had sent his best men out at the dead of night to infiltrate the camp, kill leaders, burn provisions and spread chaos. None of it did any good. His men were caught more often than not and presented to him the next morning where they were hanged in clear view of those on the walls.

To his eyes, their numbers seemed endless. He might have wondered how the army could be so large, how so many would turn their banners, but looking back at Cersei with her dishevelled hair and dark circles under her eyes as she screamed at courtiers was enough to show why. She was a fool. A fool he had loved with all his heart, but that had been when he was blind. _She’s little better than Robert or Aerys now. My sweet sister . . ._  

Jaime turned to his men manning the walls. Gold cloaks, knights, men-at-arms and the remnants of Mace’s army. In an attempt to lessen the difference of power, Ser Jaime emptied all the wares of the armouries and blacksmiths and called upon militias levied upon the various guildhalls and those who starved. None would be adequate against professional sellswords but they had basic training with crossbows and would fight decently on the walls. _Until they turn tail and run_. Since arriving at the city, he’d taken steps to sure up the defences. The gates had been repaired, the walls hoarded and entire streets closed off. The King’s Landing barricades were built of wood, stone and rubble, further fortified with sharpened stakes and ditches. Not an easy obstacle to breakthrough by any means.

“As the defenders of King’s Landing, what do you think of our chances?” Jaime asked, knowing it was a dumb question.

It was Ser Addam who answered, “We can consider our task fulfilled if the Vale forces strike us in our backs.”

“Always the idealist.”

The knight of House Marbrand huffed, scratching his chin. “If I was one, I could say that worse odds had been won. Your brother won against Stannis, a hardened military commander. This army is led by youths after all. I doubt they know what Her Grace has cooked up.”

_They probably do. Tyrion is over there, I'm sure_. “Youths with dragons and skillful commanders at their disposal. My sister . . .” _My sister_. He had seen her eyes when she burned down the Tower of the Hand. She always had beautiful eyes like finely cut emeralds, but when he saw her, Cersei was feverish in the way she stared. It was strange when she didn’t really surprise him with her plan. The Alchemists Guild had been busy making more of the substance. Men would throw the substance from the wall in jars that burst open to set anything they touched into flame. That wasn’t all. Those monstrosities of Aegon the Unworthy had been brought up from where they once collected dust. Some were large, some were small, but all spewed wildfire in short bursts. Many of the men were equipped with those handheld devices the men started calling “firethrowers.”

Not that Jaime expected them to make a difference. It was unstable as only wildfire could be. Oh, Hallyne claimed it was only because most were old, and that the newly made wildfire was more stable. That was said after one of the stockpiles had been destroyed by a Dornishman who was found dead in his cell just before he was to be interrogated by Qyburn.

The Strongboar huffed. He stood taller than nearly all on the wall. “Let them come. I always wanted to be called a dragonslayer." He grinned at that. "The silver-haired bitch, will she fight? Or would it only be the boy?” He took a swig of strong wine. Jaime wished for a skin to calm his nerves.

“Targaryen womenfolk have in the past,” Ser Addam replied, turning around to see crossbowmen assemble and crank back their strings. They were powerful enough to take down a fully plated knight, but Jaime couldn't help but wonder how they'll fare against a dragon. “I wouldn’t put it past these two, especially if they keep up trying to re-enact their ancestors, as well as Stannis. By the grace of the merciful Seven, those two have no originality.”

Jaime couldn’t help but chuckle. “That so.” With the sound of another horn, his attention turned once more to the Targaryen force. They were getting closer, not yet in arrow range. “Ser Cerion Lannett. Tell the crews of the trebuchets to begin firing upon the fleet. Also go and lead the forth reserve forward. I have a feeling we need it.”

The knight was quick to take his leave, scurrying down the wall with his household guard trailing closely behind.

Everyone had their objectives. Everyone knew what to do. But despite everything, this battle was going to be chaos. It was the dragons that'll be the most dangerous thing they'll face. Thankfully they weren't adult ones. Still young after all, judging from their size. Jaime had researched dragons and how they were used during the Dance. He needed to in the hope to bring them down.

The guard towers built to serve as barracks and watchtowers for the gold cloaks had been turned into fortresses. On top were repeating ballistae forming a three-sixty degree arc of fire as well as being cramped with archers. While Jaime hated archers – especially crossbowmen – almost every one of his men had one in hand, with orders to hit dragon or rider. Princess Visenya did, after all, get injured fighting against the combined armies of the Reach and Westerlands. It felt unchivalrous shooting a woman, but yet again, she was going to set half the city and his men alight, so Jaime considered it even.

At the end of this day, only one would stand victorious. Whoever that was, they had to clean up the bloody mess afterwards.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys

Turning away from the walls, Daenerys smiled sadly at Meraxes and patted his nuzzle. Her dragon was a good creature. Quiet and peaceful. It felt wrong to use him in battle. All the dragons, but especially Meraxes, held a special place in her heart. He was hers, the dragon that pressed up against her when he was young, purring peacefully like a kitten.

She smiled at that memory, until she heard a voice.

“Your Grace. The men are ready for your command,” spoke out Captain Valarr, standing to attention in a suit of oiled mail, with a myrish scope strapped to his belt. He wasn’t going to fight with his men, instead he would stand atop a hill and command from a distance. “The men are forming up for battle and ready for the dragons to take flight. Once those walls are clear, we can move up unabated.”

She grimaced at the sound of his voice. There was a underlying smugness that found its way beneath her skin. It was like he was speaking to a child. _I’m not a child. I’m the future queen. The mother of dragons_. She turned to him and stared into those black eyes of his. He stared back and she could swear his lips were fighting back a smirk. The man looked at her and Aegon as though there was a secret jest only he was privy to. “They’ll fly soon enough, captain,” she allowed, trying to remain civil. She didn’t want to lose her judgement when there were thousands of arrows heading in her direction.

“That is good. I would dread to attack these walls without proper dragon support. Your force lacks siege artillery, no thanks to Lord Connington or Tarly. Though I would suggest you remain careful with the siege artillery from both sides. Especially those on the walls. I encourage you to use hit and run tactics.”

_And there it continues_. She grit her teeth and turned away to where Lord Jon was conversing with her husband in hushed voices. It was clear she wasn’t the only one infuriated this morning. It had been a busy night. After all the feasting and festivities came the planning. Listening to all the commanders and lords shout over each other really tried her patience. 

Politely excusing herself when the dark-haired captain was in the middle of a monologue, Daenerys Targaryen went over to the both of them. Lord Jon Connington wore a mix of chainmail and plate, with a tabard of two combatant griffins counter-changed on red and white. His greying red hair was hidden underneath a mail coif and thick padding. He looked tired with dark circles around his eyes. Everyone had been having lack of sleep, Lord Jon wasn’t the only one.

“I will not do so, my lord,” Aegon growled. “What future king would I be if I crawl through tunnels? You and Barristan do it if you must. I’m staying in the air. The army needs me.”

“You are being a stubborn child. You know what kind of value you taking the Red Keep from the inside? This is the one way to take the keep without needlessly throwing away lives.”

“So let someone—oh, hello Daenerys.” Her husband turned to her, not happy. They had an argument when Varys brought the news. Aegon hadn’t been pleased at seeing the former Master of Whispers. He'd been drinking and looked ready to strike the eunuch after diverting the conversation to his mother and sister. It had once been a happy night, but at the end, Daenerys left them to find her own tent to sleep everything off.

“Hello, Aegon,” she spoke formally. She wasn’t pleased at his stubbornness. Dany agreed with the plan set forth by their commanders. Once the walls and gates were taken, Aegon was required to leave the fight and infiltrate the Red Keep with a small detachment of their most elite soldiers. They would bring an end to the Lannister regime and remove them from the Iron Throne. But Aegon, in his youthful pride, didn’t want to go scurrying through caverns while she was to remain in the skies.

“Come to apologise, my dear?” he folded his arms.

She grit her teeth. _By the Seven! Is he really doing this right now?_ He might be older, but Aegon could sure act like a petulant child when he wanted to. “You know full well I won’t. You know what you need to do. We decided.”

Aegon pursed his lips. “I didn’t.”

That earned a chuckle from Valarr who approached with Varys trailing behind. The Spider may have been infamous for wearing bright robes and smelling strongly of perfume. What she saw didn’t match that. The eunuch wore boiled leather and mail, with a metal cap resting atop his bald head.  “Prince Aegon. You really need to pay attention to the rules of symbolism. That’s what makes it an interesting story and therefor good propaganda. There will be a beauty in the act of you sneaking into the Red Keep when you once had been ferried out, don’t you think? Not only that, but they’ll fight better when they know their future king is fighting alongside them in the flesh.”

“It would be better symbolism if I rode through the King’s Gate,” he muttered, turning away, “And besides, they’ll fight better if they could see me above them, not crawling through tunnels.”

“If you do ride through the King's Gate, make sure you're sitting atop a white horse. But instead, you'll be riding a black dragon in clear view of your army, supporting and fighting with them. Just until the walls are ours,” Valarr finished. “Dragons are next to useless in urban warfare unless you desire to burn down half the city. Which would certainly happen if you had your way.”

“They won’t burn the city down. We trained them. They release their fire only on command. We made sure of it,” Aegon defended, approaching the slightly taller sellsword. “When they see the dragons, they’ll cower.”

Lord Jon Connington spoke up at that moment, “Prince Aegon, Princess Daenerys, you should both realise the dragons are not the creatures that were used during Aegon’s Conquest. They will be shot down if you’re foolish. Which you're certainly acting right now. The both of you.”

He was scolding them like a parent, which in many ways Jon was. First, Dany felt anger, then shame. Both she and Aegon had been fighting, but their enemies were the Lannisters holed up within the city. She and Aegon were family and shouldn’t be at each other's throats. “Just do it, Egg,” she said, going close to him and looking into his eyes. “Please.” Her voice was soft and she could feel his face soften ever-so-slightly.

“B-but . . .” her nephew sighed and looked to the ground, fighting back a frown. “Fine.”

“As much as I don’t want to break this up,” Jon Connington said, frowning. “We have a city to conquer, preferably without burning it down.”

 

* * *

 

Jon Connington 

Lord Jon Connington, the hand of the king, sat atop his horse overlooking the city. His pale-blue eyes watched the men march forward under heavy fire. The beating of drums and marching boots were broken up the sharp sounds of trumpets and horns. From the walls, archers rained down volley after volley. Many missed, and those that hit their mark deflected off the armour or embedded themselves within the wood of shields. At a distance they’ll do little, but as the men closed the distance, the archers would become deadly.

_I should be there. I should be fighting alongside them_. But a part of him was thankful he wouldn’t. It'll only bring back memories of the Battle of the Bells. He could still remember it vividly and didn’t want to relive the experience. The fact that the Great Sept’s bells were ringing was sending familiar and unwelcome shivers up his spine. If Jon hadn't lost that battle, if he managed to kill Robert at the steps of the sept, this battle wouldn't be happening. This war wouldn't have happened.

Beside him stood Rolly Duckfield and Ser Barristan Selmy clad in the white plate and scales of the kingsguard. The true kingsguard, not the mummer’s show that was hiding inside King’s Landing. Neither Barristan nor Duck wanted to be held back, with Ser Barristan asking to personally lead the attack. There was, after all, more honour being first on the walls. That would have rallied the men to fight the harder with Ser Barristan the Bold standing alongside them. Jon could understand and would have encouraged it if not for the plan. Jon learned that honour wasn’t a shield; graveyards were full of honourable men.

“It'd be like Duskendale,” Ser Barristan said, his breath visible against the cold air. “That was when I was younger, but with that, I grappled over the walls. I didn’t go through caves being led by a eunuch.”

“What was that like, Lord Commander?” Duck asked, rubbing his hands together. While they were lined with fur and supple leather, the outside was overlapping plate and rattled as it scraped. “One of your daring feats?”

“Much easier than this will be, I'll confess. It was one of my proudest moments when I fought my way through a garrison defending the castle. I wasn’t asked to do it. I offered myself to protect the king and release him. Lord Tywin gave me a day to do so, else he'd storm the gates himself and risk the life of King Aerys. So I did it. I disguised myself as a hooded beggar and scaled the walls. When that was done, it was easier sneaking through the town.”

_Then you brought the king to safety, avenging Ser Gyayne Gaunt and slaying Ser Symon Hollard who killed him_. Ser Barristan almost died from his escape when an arrow stuck his back, wounding him. It was a fanciful story, one that Jon Connington enjoyed listening to from the white knight himself when he had recovered.

“Will this be different?” asked the smith-turned-knight.

“Harder, Ser Rolly. I’m not as young as I once was, I’m afraid to say. We will face the garrison and the Kingsguard of Tommen Baratheon which includes my sworn brothers like the Kingslayer.”

“Jaime Lannister, huh? I heard of him. Pretty boy, slew his king with a golden sword? Not the brightest of men, I heard, but a monster with a blade. I’ve seen many men fight from my time in Essos as a squire to Homeless Harry, but none have any stories like the Kingslayer.”

“He’s lost his sword hand. Replaced with one of gold,” one of the sellswords from the Golden Company butted in.

Duck chuckled. “Makes it easier then, doesn’t it? He lost his hand, he has to make do with the other. The one he can’t duel with.”

“He was a skilled swordsman, none can dare question,” Ser Barristan continued, his voice heavy. “But he’s a traitor who stabbed his own king. Oaths are what make true knights. Without them, we are nothing more than killers. That is exactly what Ser Jaime Lannister is. Once, I saw him as a brother and had been proud. Now he soils the white cloak, as do the rest of them up there.”

_It doesn’t take much to soil the white cloak_. Jon Connington pulled out the Myrish scope and looked through it. It was usually used by maesters and ship captains, but came just handy in looking faraway distances across a battlefield.

The men were pushing forward through the mud, shields raised above their heads. Others rushed forward with ladders. Already one of the siege towers was destroyed from where a trebuchet lobbed a barrel of wildfire at it. Within an instant the entire wooden structure caught alight, turning it into a coffin. Men jumped out if they could, others were cooked alive. As the army got closer to the walls they fell to arrows and bolts, but also to short-lived jets of green flame being sprayed out of bronze tubs the defenders carried. The liquid fire seeped through their armour and around their shields. Those unlucky men died screaming.

Grimacing, Jon turned to the sky. Both Aegon and Daenerys were now in the air, mounted on the backs of their dragons and circling to avoid the various defences put in place. Watchtowers had been converted to anti-dragon fortresses, their peaks bristling with artillery and crossbowmen. While not accurate, they were making sure the dragons couldn’t get too close. Aegon flew close to one, gracefully evading the bolts being thrown his way. The black and red dragon roared as it closed the distance, but was forced upwards to avoid being hit by a scorpion. Already, the wings were ripped with holes and Jon could see where bolts had hit the mail armour the dragon wore.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. _Be safe, the both of you_.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys

They had warned her about the battle, claiming it was no place for a lady let alone a princess. Daenerys had refused their words, of course. She was a princess and soon she will be queen, but above all, she was a dragon and dragons fought their battles. Queen Rhaenys nor did Visenya hide away in Dragonstone while their husband went to the field. There were many others as well, queens and princesses and ladies of Targaryen and Veleyron who fought on the backs of dragons like Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys, the wife of Lord Corlys Velaryon. _I will not hide. I am no longer a child. My enemies will learn to fear me_.

The air was thick with smoke and tasted of ash, even for as high she was. Dany looked down as the battle was fought, seeing everything going on. Soldiers were busy storming the walls, falling victim to arrows and stones and pots of wildfire. The green flames were everywhere, searing flesh and melting steel. It proved itself just as dangerous to the defenders as it did on those below the walls. Many pots were smashed in the panic, sending whole sections of the walls alight with wildfire. Their pained cries filled the air, unnatural and not sounding like a man, but instead a beast. Men leapt off the walls hoping for a more merciful death.

Turning Meraxes around and searching for a safer target, Daenerys sighted the blockaded bay. Sailing up the Blackwater Rush were thirty to forty galleys, bristling with men and siege engines all under the command of their Master of Ships. That had once been Tyrion Lannister’s chain was no more. Ships came in and out freely, but always under danger from the defenders on top the walls. Leading the way was Aurane’s “Pride of Driftmark,” shortly followed by the captured Ghiscari warship “Prince Daemon,” as well as many others with freshly painted hulls and changed names.

The sea echoed with the sounds of shouts, warhorns, the steady beating of drums and pipes. Their oars, like the legs of a centipede, slapped the choppy waves as they rose and fell. The fleet didn’t face any resistance from the queen’s fleet for she had no ships. Their fleet were free to ferry men and support the battle. Already, many had landed spearmen and archers onto the shore where they faced resistance from sallies sent out to push them back. South, men were dragging crude rafts towards the river, while behind them stood columns in formation, waiting for the transports to meet them underneath a thousand streaming banners. Those rafts were soon under fire from pitch pots, arcing through the air trailing threads of flame, and the men garrisoning the archer nests whose arrows hissed through the air. Most of the wildfire, burning pitch and arrows were swallowed by the waters below, but a few found their targets. A sellsword was hit by an arrow and fell into the waters, while a burning pot hit dead centre of the Prince Daemon, sending the crew reeling backwards as flames ignited the deck and climbed up the mast.

All throughout the Blackwater Rush, water was kicked up in great gouts from the long arms of the trebuchets. They rose and fell, throwing anything from pitch to stones the size of a man’s head that shattered everything they touched. The ship formerly known as “Sweet Cersei” was ripped in half by one of those balls. It easily smashed through the oak hull where the dromond sank lopsided into the water, only be crash into the vessel sailing behind it.

She needed to deal with those war machines.

As Dany made her path, the wind howled in her face. It was cold, full of soot and ash. Despite being muffled, the peoples cries filled her ears and her mind. She loved to fly and seeing the world beneath her. But today wasn’t one of those days.

Taking a deep breath, Daenerys ordered her dragon towards the target. Meraxes tucked in his wings and went into a dive. They picked up more and more speed. Dany felt faint and the wind was so strong she had trouble breathing. The chains of her harness rattled as she held onto the saddle with all she had. The city got bigger and bigger. _Just wait . . . that’s it . . ._ “ _NOW!_ ” Meraxes spread his wings and all the force threw her forward. All the air suddenly escaped her lungs at full force, but Daenerys at the top of her voice cried, “ _Dracarys!_ ”

The dragon’s maw opened and burst forth a torrent of fire. The trebuchets were engulfed with dragon’s breath. Fire ran up the wooden arms and spread to the surrounding stalls. Men screamed in pain. Pots of wildfire exploded from the heat and shards of pottery flew into the air. Crossbowmen all turned around and opened fire. Her child roared in pain and let loose another torrent without her orders, this one aimed at the walls while at the same time, hitting many of the houses and buildings. Even more burned alive.

Daenerys pressed close to Meraxes’ scaled body and ordered him to climb up once more. The cream-and-gold dragon did so. When they were a safe distance away, she looked at the destruction she had caused. _Only a dragon can do that_. The results terrified and disgusted her. The smell of burnt flesh was rank in the air. Fire swept leaped from house to house, the thatch and wood and narrow streets making it easy for the flames to spread. The streets were full as people ran for their lives. 

All around her, arrows and bolts whizzed past. The dragon performed some manoeuvres to avoid being hit, but just the amount made it hard. Arrows hit Meraxes and through his wings. The sight enraged her and Daenerys flew even higher. Dany saw Aegon fighting on the other side of the city. He was attracting the attention from the watchtowers within the city. They wouldn’t take much to beat, all the men were cramped together, but getting close enough would be dangerous. The archers fired, keeping at a distance while the multiple scorpions waited. They would prove disastrous if she got close enough.

She’ll have to deal with them, but not now. Meraxes flapped his wings, rising further up where it was safe. Now, she was second highest. Her husband was below, striking the walls with a ferocity expected of a son of House Targaryen. Watching him, it was to see that beast was in control for the most part. Balerion was the most disobedient. Though he had gotten better since getting a rider, he was stubborn enough to completely ignore orders if he felt like it. Vhagar, on the other hand, seemed interested in remaining out of it for now. _Maybe he’ll come in later_. It would make sense for him, he was sneaky and would hold back until the right opportunity presented itself.

Daenerys Targaryen looked down the city that formed a square around three hills named after Aegon and his sisters. It had seven gates and straight roads leading directly to plazas but they were barricaded and defended. There were also winding streets that would be a mess for any army to fight through. _Unless they surrender, the streets will turn red with blood_. She had been told that urban combat was the most brutal. Both sides forming lines and pushing against each other in the narrow streets, neither side giving an inch. The inhabitants knew the twisting streets and passages of the capital, setting up ambushes for the attackers who would be lost within the nest. _The street fighting will be brutal and I won’t be able to help them_. The dragons could only be used on the walls, nothing more unless she wanted to burn the city down. Already, much of it was burning and fuelling the smoke that hindered her vision.

On the walls, arrows rained down on those attempting to storm the battlements. Many carried ladders while others tried to push a siege tower through the mud but it barely moved. Archers – mostly crossbowmen – took cover behind whatever they could, exposing themselves to fire upon any who dared lift their heads above the ramparts. Unsullied moved forward slowly, shields above their heads and spear points making them look like a hedgehog. Arrows did little for they were unable to penetrate the shields. But that changed when the Unsullied got near enough for the wildfire.

Pots flew and burst.

The shield wall fell in the explosion and the black cloaked eunuchs danced a fiery dance, crying inhuman cries. The rest of the black cloaks were quick to withdraw. Other soldiers were doing better. The Golden Company had reached the walls and had a ram already battering down the gate. Their shields were locked above their heads with Black Balaq and his archers laying down covering fire from behind wooden mantlets and pavise shields. From the fires running along the walls, it was one of the places Aegon had already cleared. Turning Meraxes around, Daenerys Targaryen prepared to attack where the black cloaks were pushed back. She would cover them trying to reach the walls. They needed her help.

Daenerys was sweating underneath her armour. The air was cold but she could feel all the fires burning underneath her. Bright yellow, orange, and eerie green. It had a strange beauty, horrible but she couldn’t keep her eyes away.

“Meraxes do me proud. _Dracarys!”_

 

* * *

 

Jaime

_Dragons. Dragons flying everywhere_. Where the dragons flew, people died.

They circled above him, just out the range of ballistae and archers. They dived at full speed, spreading their wings at the last moment and bathing the walls in blistering hot flame. Jaime pushed through the street with more than a hundred mounted knights which included Ser Robert Strong who walked for no horse would allow him near without panicking. Cersei loathed to part with the kingsguard, but Jaime urged her, saying that much a massive man would boast their men’s morale and make them fight all the harder. She reluctantly agreed and instead was protected by Ser Boros Blount and Meryn Trant, who might as be elsewhere, a detachment of red cloaks and knights from both the Reach and Westerlands.

For all what Jaime disliked Ser Robert Strong, the good things was his strength and the fact he made one hell of a target.

As they moved through the streets that had already been ruined thanks to the riots before the battle, Ser Jaime couldn’t breathe. The smell of death and smoke was strong. The heat from the fires made wearing his armour unbearable. They needed to reinforce the Mud Gate which was under serious strain. Despite his best efforts, the gate was still weakened from Stannis' attack so Jaime had been forced to reinforce it with some to his best. But that wasn’t enough and the defenders were under threat of being forced back.

_A hundred knights, a cripple and a monster should be enough to face back some Essosi_.

So he hoped.

The streets were deserted, almost eerie. The smallfolk had barricaded themselves in their homes or the Great Sept of Baelor that sang with the voices of thousands of people and the ringing of bells. The bronze sounds echoed throughout the city. In the past, the Sept of Remembrance that had been razed by Balerion’s flames. Sings and prayers didn’t save them then, it was unlike to save them now. The roads that had once been white with fleshly layered snow turned to mud underneath the feet of horses and soldiers. It'll likely turn red before the battle was done. The men will be pushed back and fight for every bitter step they took if they didn't route. Jaime knew that the walls would fall. No man in their right mind would stand where he could burn and the walls _would_ burn.

By the time he reached the gates, underneath all the shouts and curses, calls for aid and foreign words he didn’t understand, Jaime Lannister heard the booming crash of the battering ram. Soldiers rushed to reinforce the gates while those above the walls were doing their best to shoot down at the Targaryen sellswords below. The groaning of the wood hinted that any moment the gates would burst open and the attackers would sweep inside like a flood, slashing and butchering anyone they came across.

“Form up!” shouted the Lord Commander of Tommen Baratheon’s Kingsguard, with his one good hand holding the reins of his horse and the other hand of gold being no use other than to hold his shield. “Who commands here?”

“No one,” shouted a man with a bolt lodged underneath his arm and being treated by another. He sat atop a crate, face flashed in pain. The gates shuddered under the impact of another blow. “He’s dead.”

“Then I’ll take charge.” He had to. Jaime surveyed the men. Lannister men and those of the Westerlands. He had fought with them in the Riverlands but they looked different now, defeated. If they believed in anything, it didn’t show.

“Led by the fucking cripple,” spat one with flaming tree of House Marbrand. “That’s the best we’ve got now—”

Jaime rode over and smashed him in the face with his good hand. The man fell to the ground with a grunt of pain and rolled in the mud. The last thing Jaime needed was one shouting words that would further impair morale. “You will fight or Seven help me, I’ll throw you to Qyburn.” A fate worse than death. It didn’t seem to do much to persuade men who were fighting dragons with pots of wildfire.

A roar filled the air and Jaime turned to see the black dragon swoop down deeper in the city. Aegon’s dragon, it had to be. For a brief moment he felt numb, until he once again heard the smashing on the gates. Lannister turned to see them bend and buckle under the strain. More gold cloaks pressed forward to hold the gates and reinforce it with timber.

It wasn’t doing any good.

With a shout, the men backed off and Jaime ordered them into a shield wall. They were hesitant and the knights moved their mounts into a wedge with Jaime at the tip and his squires behind him. Both were good boys. He felt sorry for what was going to happen. “As soon as the gates burst we sweep in.” It was a risky tactic, but should the Targaryens get in, they could easily sweep the city with their numbers alone. If his idea was successful, it'll give those inside the city more time to prepare. 

“My lord, Lord Commander,” shouted a runner, his face bleeding and green surcoat dark with blood. He was panting for breath and looked like he would collapse any moment. “The Dornish . . . the Sparrows . . . they’ve attacked us and opened the King’s Gate. Sellswords charging in. Barricades along the River Row being overwhelmed. Smallfolk attacking. They burst through—”

“The Strongboar?”

“Leading what’s left our reserve to try to close the gate . . . my lord, the dragon girl—”

_Will kill us all_. The Targaryens had the numbers, the strength and the dragons. _If we can withdraw to the castle, we may be able to issue a termed surrender . . ._ His thoughts were interrupted when the iron head of a dragon burst through the gate. “Form up. Form wedge.” _If I fight, they must or risk being less than a cripple_.

Honour was dressed in the colours of the Kingsguard, all white and barbed. White wool draped over his hindquarters above a coat of polished mail. Ser Jaime Lannister, too, was dressed in the immaculate white and silver of the Kingsguard. The only bit of gold on him was his hand. With all the darkness lit by orange and red and green, Ser Jaime looked half a ghost. He turned to the two hundred men preparing for the gates to burst. Members of the city watch, men-at-arms of the Houses Lannister and Tyrell, bannermen with spears at the ready as they stood behind the ashen lances of brightly coloured knights. Despite their grievances, all were in it together.

_I’ve lost a mother, a father, a son and a daughter. I’ve lost my brother and the woman I once loved. I’ll most likely lose my other son_. He looked at the knights who stared ahead knowing it may be the final battle of their lives. With the raging wildfire, it was like they were going into the jaws of hell. Yet they stood their ground, fear etched in their features, but they stood. “Men. I can say I’m not one for pretty speeches or talks of valour. I could speak to you of defending King’s Landing, a city you never lived in, but I won’t. I say let’s just kill them all, or risk being killed yourselves. They won’t give you mercy. These are sellswords. Remember Bronzegate!” He dropped his visor with a _clang_. The world could only be seen through a slender slit. _When the maesters talk about this, they’ll talk about Ser Jaime the Goldenhand. Like a true knight I’ll die with sword in hand_.

As soon as those thoughts went, the gates burst. Not even Jaime heard his command. All the armoured knights began a canter, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Above them, Tommen’s stag streamed crimson and gold from the pole of the standard bearer. The canter soon turned into a gallop. The streets were slippery, equal parts mud and shit, snow and slush. Hooves slid and kicked up the ground as they charged. Soon the world was filled with the muffled chants and words of knights and soldiery. Sellswords who had ran through the gate immediately either tried to go back or leap to the sides. In a wedge the cavalry broke out the gate, impaling sellswords on the points of their lances and trampling the rest.

Jaime had braced but was forced back in his saddle, somehow kept remaining on his horse despite his one hand. Honour nayed and sellswords turned, fleeing from the chargers. “ _FOR KING’S LANDING! SLAY THE DRAGONS!_ ” Other men took up the cry and they found themselves on the riverfront. Fire danced at the end of their lances while their silk and favours flowed and rippled. Arrows whizzed overhead, both from the ground and high on the city walls. Burning pitch and pots of wildfire was thrown from the defenders, while stones spun and tumbled around him, crushing blindly into earth and water, stone and flesh.

Jaime galloped towards a slow sellsword and drove the point of his lance right through the man’s chest. The force lifted the man up and through him a few feet, a quarter of the lance broke off and remained half embedded in his body. Jaime made a turn towards another sellsword who was loading a crossbow. The ground was slippery under Honour’s feet which slowed him down. After he killed the man, Jaime turned to see his surroundings.

Many of the ships were on fire and those that weren’t were providing cover with artillery and archers rained fire on whoever on the walls dared raise their heads. Many leapt off the vessels and planted shields into the ground to cower behind. Jaime never liked crossbows and Essosi crossbowmen were the worst. One bowman had a gate emblazoned on his surcoat. Yronwood, was Jaime’s first thought, the man certainly looked Dornish, though it could just may be all the smoke. It was only then Jaime realised he was holding a portion of the lance he once had. As the man was hurrying away, slipping in blind panic, Jaime smashed him over the head, throwing splinters into the air. The bowman soon fell like the others – he didn’t wear a helm.

Cries filled the air as the invaders withdrew to more defendable positions. The archers on the wall cheered. Sellswords, Dornish and lightly armoured marines weren’t a match for heavy knights after all. Jaime threw away his makeshift club and pulled out his sword. The dark blade of Widow’s Wail was kissed by fire, the ripples only intensified the image. _A stupid name for a sword_. But good steel was good steel and Valyrian was the best. Jaime needed all the help he could get.

His men didn’t have a moment to breathe when they returned. Targaryen reinforcements.

They charged through the black smoke rising from the wildfire licking the surface of the water. Sellswords galloped forward atop horses coated in overlapping scales aglow with green, their mounts ringing with the sound of lesser bells. Knee to knee they rode, with lances and horseman’s picks that could piece through even the thickest of mail. On their flanks rode heavy cavalry archers who fired their bows at short range.

When it happened.

Their charged was stopped when one man on the walls threw down a pot of wildfire. It exploded before them, unleashing an inhuman roar. That broke their charge instantly. One horse galloped away, mane and tail alight. A man screamed, laying amidst the flames, his skin bumbling and armour turning into molten metal. 

That didn’t stop them all though.

“Fire and blood!” roared a cataphract swinging a mace. Flames licked the polished metal of his scaled armour and chainmail that covered his face. Bronze bells sang and behind him rushed spearmen. Above them streamed silken banners of black and purple. Like the mercenary knew him, the Essosi lunged forward.

Jaime barely rose his shield in time. Shards of white paint and wood exploded from the impact. He bit back a gasp as pain spread through his arm. Even underneath all the padding and armour, Jaime felt the force. The Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard tried to turn his mount around but the sellsword kept up the barrage, hammering down with evermore power behind his strikes.

Jaime tried to go around and thrust his sword, but it only deflected off the scales. The two horses circled each other until his opponent’s horse suddenly reared and buckled, crushing the leg of its rider. Jaime turned to see a gold cloak with a spear. Jaime thanked the man with a nod before rushing to find another enemy.

It didn’t take long for sellswords were everywhere. They fought with soldiers wearing gold and green and red. Many of the knights were either dead or fighting in the mud like the common soldiery. One sellsword was smashing a knight over and over in the head with a rock, unable to stop killing the already dead man beneath him. Two dismounted knights – one with a poleaxe, another with a mace – were fighting back to back against a horde of Dornish spearmen. Jaime rode down one and opened another’s neck. One wannabe hero lunged at him with a curved sword but a shield stopped that and Jaime smashed the white painted wood against his face.

Before the man even fell, Jaime turned to another and Honour thundered underneath him. His lungs hurt from his shouting that mingled with the sounds of slaughter going on around him. Honour seemed to love battle as much as Jaime once had, kicking and biting whoever got close enough. The horse jolted as one sellsword tried to go behind and kicked the man’s head with powerful rear legs. Jaime liked the horse, though he’d been warned that it was unwise for a knight to grow attached to his mount.

But for all he and his men fought, they were being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the opposition. Many of his men fell to arrows that found weak points in the armour. They fell into the mud only to be swarmed. Men in Lannister gold and Tyrell green were battling with all they got against Dornishmen and sellswords and rebellious Reach bannermen. Many broke and fled back towards the River Gate.

“ _TO THE GATES! TO THE GATES!_ ” Jaime shouted, turning his bleeding horse around. Honour was panting and circling, mud and blood having long since soiled the white of his coat. “ _WITHDRAW!_ ”

When he was about to turn and retreat himself, a young man lunged forward in the corner of his eye, throwing a javelin. It didn’t hit Jaime but the creature between his legs. Jaime was thrown forward into the black mud among the bodies – those still breathing and those that weren’t.

Jaime Lannister spat out blood from where his teeth bit deep into his tongue. As much as he felt the urge, he refused to open his visor. To do so would be a death wish and many surely wanted his head. When a knight lost his feet during battle, the very armour that protected him became a hindrance at best or a coffin at worst. A peasant with a dagger or club had an advantage, being able to thrust the blade into the joints or just smash the fallen knight over the head before he could regain his feet.

As Jaime laid on his side, one leg pinned underneath his pained horse, he could only listen to the muffled sounds of the world around him, watching it through the narrow slit of his visor. Enemy cavalry stomped the dead around him and sellswords formed up their lines, none giving him the slightest bit of attention as they focused their energy on those still standing. Steel rang against steel and curses echoed as did the cries of men and beasts. Jaime thought of Cersei and what had once been, he thought of Myrcella and what would become of Tommen. He thought of his father and mother, of Rhaegar last words, “When I come back . . .” He thought of the son, the princess who'd been stabbed half a hundred times, and then Tyrion who Jaime wondered would ever forgive him for Tysha. All that rushed through his mind as he laid dying on the riverbank.

In the distance Jaime heard people call his name.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys

She landed back at camp to check Meraxes’ wounds.

Her eyes were watering, both from the smoke and from what they had done to him. Her dragon, her precious dragon, was riddled with arrows. While the armour he wore gave him extra protection, he was still bleeding from where they found their target. The silver-gold creature was panting with exhaustion and agony. Dany pressed a hand to his nuzzle, trying to comfort him. The golden eyes stared at the ground, refusing to look at her. She could see the pain in those eyes. She felt in it her heart.

Fighting back a grimace, she felt her side pulse once more and looked down. Just like her mount, Daenerys didn’t get away unsheathed. The metal of her armour had caved in at multiple points, making it all the harder to breathe. Besides the dents, holes were visible from where the bolts had pieced through the metal. She was thankful it didn’t get through the layer of chainmail and the padding underneath.

“Your Grace,” cried Ser Barristan in his white plate. “Are you safe? Meraxes . . . how is he?”

Dany felt the urge to just lay down and withdraw to keep the sounds and sights away. It was all horrible and she felt sick. “I’m fine. Just gotten shot at a few times. That’s all.” She turned to Meraxes who was laying on the ground. In time, Daenerys Targaryen knew he'd recover, but that would take time. Something neither she nor Aegon had.

Speaking of Aegon . . .

She looked up and saw him flying towards her. If she thought Meraxes had it rough, it couldn’t compare to Balerion who didn’t descend as much as crash beside his brother. She felt even more tears rise at the sight.

Aegon fumbled off the chain on his saddle and jumped down, ignoring her and turning to Balerion whose body was riddled with arrows and bolts. There was even a scorpion bolt sticking out just under the wing. Blood ran freely from the wound, a sickly black substance had burnt the wooden shaft. He looked weak, like he was going to die.

“What happened?” she asked, feeling her chest grow heavy at the sight. How could this happen? All she wanted to do now was tend to both the dragons, to ignore the battle and cure them of their wounds.

Aegon tore off his helm and threw it to the side. His silvery hair was slick and his face deathly pale. “I . . . I tried to go after one of those towers. I-I got in close . . . too close. They fire on of the scorpions and—”

He barely finished before she slapped him. “ _Why would you be so foolish!_ Look at him. Look at him, Aegon. Look at how _hurt_ he is!”

Aegon stared at her, not Balerion. His face had lost all colouring excluding the mark she left on his cheek. “D-Dany . . .”

“What are you two doing?” Jon Connington roared, stepping forward. He glanced at the dragons, just a sparing look. “What happened to them?”

“My husband was being foolish. Look at Balerion! Look at how hurt he is!”

Jon didn't even look at the dragon. “War is war,” he said, turning to the city. “We have bigger problems at the moment. We were a hairsbreadth away from smashing the Mud Gate but the Kingslayer has reinforced it. Now look!”

Both Dany and Aegon turned to look across the river. In the water, many ships were alight and corpses had floated up on the sides of the river. There was fighting on the shore with their men being slowly pushed back. “Kingslayer?”

“Aye,” came a voice. She turned around to see Valarr surrounded by soldiers in black armour. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be a craven, but instead a warrior. He did look it, mounted on a horse as black as the night, mane and tail flowing in the wind, just like the raven feathers sprouting the sides of the helm. While the voice was muffled, it was certainly his.

“Enjoying watching the battle, sellsword?” Aegon asked bitterly, leaning on his side. He grimaced and spat out blood. It was then Daenerys realised he’d been shot just under the arm. It was bleeding and when healers rushed forth, he ignored it, instead demanding they look at Balerion.

The sellsword ignored the comment and continued staring at the city. “This isn’t battle,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of anything relating to emotion. “This is extermination.” Moving his mount forward, he turned to face them, “Both of you, as much as I love to see you finally dance a little, I’m going to leave my position and reinforce the ground we’ve lost. Vogarro will lead half of what's left of my force to the waterfront and push Lannister back. I’ll go down the Lion Gate and take control of the city. The Alchemist’s Guild is too strategic a position to remain in their hands.”

“Then do it,” Connington growled. The captain immediately galloped off, kicking up mud as he went. “Daenerys . . . I’m not sure about Aegon, but you need to be up in the skies again.”

There was no way Balerion could. Already, healers were rushing forward to try and treat him. The poor dragon was too weak to resist them. Meraxes could possibly continue, if she was careful. _Hopefully those towers won’t be as near effective now_. She could see them point downwards towards the street. Aegon snatched the wineskin from Doreah and poured it down his throat. “Aegon . . . Balerion can’t fight. Perhaps you’ll care for the next part of our plan?" It wasn't so much of a question as much as a demand.

Looking down at his mount who was lying face down with smoke rising from his wounds, Aegon nodded. “It'll be necessary.”

When he was about to walk off, she grabbed his arm. “Aegon . . . I’m sorry for that. Sorry for slapping.”

Aegon looked sad. “I’m sorry too.” Then he followed Connington and the two members of the Kingsguard.

Taking a deep breath, Dany turned to Meraxes. “I don’t want to, you know. I don’t want to hurt you. This is our first time attacking a city . . . fighting a battle. You did well.” The dragon made a pained groan and Dany felt bad. He was still a young dragon and she didn’t want to hurt him. but they needed to continue. “This will be over soon, can you hold on?” Meraxes released another groan.

Taking a deep breath and trying to suppress her objections, Daenerys Targaryen mounted him once more. _This time, it’ll be different_.

 

* * *

 

Aegon

He was bloodied, but there was more to come.

The Targaryen prince stood before the hundred men who’d been nominated to storm the Red Keep. Three factions had been selected: Dornish, men of the Lost Legion and the Golden Company. Originally, Aegon wanted the black cloaks as well, but Grey Worm had been adamant that his spearmen wouldn’t be effective fighting in the confined halls, so instead Aegon decided that another five-and-twenty men of the Golden Company would take their place. It was an honour really. In the battles since the landing, the Golden Company had been the most bloodied out all the army, so it was only right they were the first to storm the Red Keep. All had their objectives that would be essential for taking the keep from the inside.

Standing before them in his black plate mail, cloak fluttering in the wind and a hand on the dragon-shaped pommel, Aegon looked at them from atop a crate. “Men, you have all fought in this campaign. You have all shed blood one way or another. Before us is the Red Keep, the fortress created by my ancestors. The final bastion that will end this battle. Inside is the golden whore alongside her incestuous brother and the boy king. Behind strong walls, guarded by their men they think themselves safe. I beg to differ. You lot standing before me are the best. The most talented, the most hardened and the most resourceful. I will stress this won’t be an easy fight. We’ll be going behind enemy lines to destroy them from within. The rose and the lion will be taken unawares and we’ll slit them throat and stem. The honour of storming the Red Keep belongs to you. Men, are you ready?”

The sounds they made were anything other than cautious. They hooted and gave into raucous chants, declaring the Red Keep as good as theirs. Aegon grinned at that and looked at one soldier with a wrapped up banner of a dragon sprouting flames. It’ll be risen up when the keep was theirs. Aegon unsheathed his sword and held it up his head. “Fire and blood!”

The shout of the different groups was then roared. “For Mother Valyria!” the legionaries shouted. “For Princess Elia, Rhaenys and Dorne!” shouted the Dornish. “Beneath the gold, the Bittersteel!” shouted the Golden Company. _Fire and retribution_ , thought Aegon.

He turned to Varys the Spider, the spymaster who had spirited him away. Not his mother or sister. In many ways, Aegon didn’t know what to think about the eunuch. In many ways he was grateful but in other ways he was gravely mad. _He let my sister and mother be sacrificial lambs_. Behind the Spider was Ser Connington and the kingsguard. _Two kingsguard against seven_. He scoffed at those odds. _Seven won’t be enough against these two_. Ser Barristan was renowned the world over and Aegon knew Duck’s skill after being beaten to the ground by the man growing up. _Neither will let me down. More than I can say for the bastard’s own_.

Taking a boat with greyed hull and muffled oars, they crossed the river and made it to the other side. They were lead through one of the caves that opened up onto the beach underneath the Red Keep. As could be expected, it was narrow, damp and cold. If not for the torches they carried, Aegon was sure it would be pitch black. They proceeded deep into the caverns, the flames flickered off the slimy stone walls. The air stank, not of shit, but of damp and seaweed that lingered heavy in the air. It made the prince want to gag.

“You must be quite the slimy little creature to sneak through this,” Ser Duck jested, trying to break the tension as they walked through the narrow confines. Many times the taller members had to bend down from the height. It was clear it had been carved from tools and not natural.

Varys was leading the way, under his feet was a group of small children. Little birds, he called them. They were small and looked malnourished but all were silent as little mice. “Everyone believes that is the case, but those who survive for long down here have to be, my dear Ser Rolly. There are things in the deepest recesses of the Red Keep that make even the most hardened of men, the most ruthless of killers to vomit.”

_We’ll see_. There were many in King’s Landing that Aegon wouldn’t mind to test it on if Varys words were correct. “How far do these tunnels go? It’s like we’ve been walking for hours.”

Silence was the response. He heard nothing from outside, where he knew they were fighting. _Fighting on the walls, shooting each other with bows and throwing pots_. Before battling the Tyrells, he wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but now, Aegon was in many ways thankful. He had enough of being shot at . . . and Balerion. Aegon was happy his dragon would no longer participate and be left to recover. Daenerys, sadly, wasn’t so fortunate . . . or unfortunate. A part of him wondered if his mount will make it.

“So tell me, Spider,” one Dornish said, his voice echoing, “How many of these tunnels are there?”

“Maegor the Cruel built these tunnels to enable quick passage both in and out the Red Keep should his enemies ever trap him. Many of these are full of traps, but I’m fortunate to never have encountered them. Many before me have, sad to say. They crisscross the whole of the Red Keep and many lead to King’s Landing. There are routes going through Flea Bottom to each of the hills, the docks and some leading even outside the city.”

_How I got out and now in_. “Then it’ll be in my interest to seal many of these up,” the prince commented, his tone a forced jest. He remembered one assassination on a prince who sneaked in through these tunnels. A rat catcher, he believed. He didn’t want the same thing to happen to him or his descendants. As they walked, the prince noticed many small tunnels, just small enough to crawl through but he doubted anyone in armour will make far unless they get stuck and ultimately die.

“Impossible, my prince. Not even I have found them all. No one can fully know the Red Keep.”

“That I doubt very much,” Jon Connington grunted under his breath.

“They say that no one can truly know the Red Keep unless they have the dragon blood,” spoke another Dornishman with a strong lilt.

Varys said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Jaime

Jaime didn’t know how he was alive.

Craning his head around, he saw men rushing towards him. All wore Lannister colours, with many wearing the gilded masks of Cersei’s Silent Lions. They formed a wedge, spears sprouting from their locked shields, pushing through all who tried to halt their advance. Ser Jaime watched them for a moment, before his attention turned to what stood behind them, swinging a massive great sword like it was a dagger, cutting through anyone that stood in his way.

Qyburn’s mute monster was like an army all on its own. Standing more than eight feet tall, he made a formidable presence. His legs where as thick as trees, his chest shamed a plough horse with shoulders larger than those of an ox. The white steel he wore was of the best quality coin could buy, and impossibly thick. The great helm with seven rainbow plumes made him look taller still. Ser Robert Strong simply dwarfed everyone. The massive kingsguard’s appearance served to ward off the saner of besiegers.

With his soldiers rushing to his aid, Jaime exerted all his strength into his body to force it upright. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – with the help from his men – managed to remove the dying horse from on top of him and sit up.

Jaime was heaving uncontrollably and turned to look at the giant who charged into a group of sellswords, raising his absurdly large greatsword and cleaved three in half like they were nothing. While many withdrew, others charged believing they were heroes. A fair-haired youth’s face was reduced to nothing but bone and gore and mist. Another tried to get behind and smash Ser Strong with a mace but it did little besides turn Qyburn’s monster towards him. More tried in vain to overwhelm it. Sellswords, Dornishman, men of the Reach and Stormlands, lancers, knights and levied peasants, all threw themselves against the knight, pounding the heavy plate and trying to stab through the joints. Hits from swords, axes, hammers, spears and maces did little but hinder Ser Robert as he pushed through them, using sword and shield and fist to kill one after another. He was unstoppable.

One sellsword charged, horse snorting like an enraged beast. The cataphract had a horseman's pick in hand, easily able to penetrate good steel like it was nothing. The horse charged straight towards the giant, the mount rearing as soon as they made contact. Strong reeled back and the rider didn’t waste time to smash the spike directly into the skull. Jaime thought that was the end, but Ser Strong grabbed the sellsword with an oversized fist and ripped the man’s head off with a sickening tear.

“Ser Jaime. Ser Jaime,” a boy repeated over and over again as he helped him up. “We’ll get you out of here. We’ll get you out.” It was his squire, barely older than three-and-ten, with a bloody cut running along his beardless cheek. He was repeating the words over and over again, tears streaming down his face.

Jaime felt tired; tired of war, tired of standing. He just wanted to find a place to lay down and sleep. All he could do was rest his arms on their shoulders as they took him inside, where guardsmen were busy repairing the shattered gates with a makeshift barricade.

“Lord Commander,” a man rushed to him. While the other had been a youth, this one was old and haggard. Half his face had burnt right through the skin. For a brief moment, he reminded Jaime of the Hound. “We can’t hold them, ser. The city is lost.”

_We lost this war before it even started_. They led out a fresh horse and Jaime mounted. “Hold off as long as you can. Defence in depth.” _They’ll break though as soon as Ser Strong is dealt with_. “Hold it before retreating to the second layer.”

He could still hear the fighting outside. When Jaime turned to the gates, he saw Strong slaughter invaders by the dozen by himself. He still had the spike lodged in his helm. The sellswords had backed away and instead tried to kill him from a distance. Many bolts simply glanced off the armour as the monstrosity lumbered towards them. They were cranking their crossbows as fast as possible. A few were heavy arbalests, others had chunky things that shot tiny bolts as soon as the lever was pulled. A few produced sparks, fewer made small dents, but all did nothing to halt the knight’s advance. Even the artillery on the ships were turning towards him.

Jaime hated archers but he felt pity for them when the knight decided to charge towards them with speed shocking for his size. Ser Jaime turned away when the butchering began. If he had more of Ser Robert Strong, he could turn this battle around.

“Lord Commander,” rushed another, bleeding profusely from under his arm. “My lord.”

“What it is?”

“The King’s Gate has fallen, my lord, so has the Old Gate, the Dragon Gate and the Iron Gate. They’re pillaging the city. Flee Bottom is on fire and rioting. The reserve sent to the King's Gate has surrendered after Ser Lyes took an axe to the head. The force defending the Alchemists’ Guild are under siege from the Sparrows.”

_Fuck_. Jaime turned to the Silent Lions who stood in near perfect formation. “You men,” _or whatever you are_ , “with me. The rest of you hold this gate.”  

With that, Jaime kicked the horse into a gallop.

The air was little more than smoulder and ash from the various fires burning. The Targaryens had lobbed in burning pitch, just as House Lannister had been lobbing wildfire at them. Entire streets were ablaze and the ground shook with explosions from stockpiles of the substance. In his ears rang the sounds of distance bells and the panic of people, the fighting and the screams of men burning and fighting and dying. In the air, through the oily smoke, Jaime could see the silhouettes of two winged beasts circling above. Whatever defences he'd laid out for them, they didn’t work.

The narrowness of the street forced Jaime and his Silent Lions into a thin column instead of a stronger formation. The streets weren’t good areas to be fighting offensively. Many of the buildings were boarded, with archers standing atop the roofs as they tried to either shoot at the dragons or approaching enemies. As ruthless as it was, Jaime wagered the Targaryens wouldn't use their dragons inside the city itself - and if they did they’ll be very careful - so Jaime had archers standing atop the houses and other buildings, using the population as human shields. _My father would be proud_.

Outside the Alchemists’ Guild, he saw them.

The barricade defending the surroundings streets were among the best. Craftsmen had formed a series of rings made of rubble from the surrounding buildings, upturned carts, packs of sand and crates. The entrances were narrow passageways that forced groups to split up whilst being fired upon. Already there were Sparrows trying to overwhelm it, commanded by knights of the Warrior Sons. Militia and gold cloaks were firing upon them from atop the makeshift battlements and throwing whatever they had in hand, be it stones, javelins or empty pots. 

The Sparrows were numerous and the ferocity of their attack promised the fighting would end quickly. Their crossbowmen took cover behind the corners of houses and fired shots whenever the defenders popped their heads up. Other smallfolk armed with fire and grappling hooks busily tore the fortifications apart.

_They won’t hold much longer_. Jaime grimaced and turned to his men. “Remove the rabble from the streets and liberate the occupants.” He pulled out Widow’s Wail once more, looking even redder than before.

The Lions didn’t speak. They never did. Instead they marched forward in formation, shields and spears at the ready. They picked up speed. Besides a shout from a few who noticed the masked men, the charge was unexpected against the Sparrow's rear like a battering ram. Soon, the air was filled the cries of slaughter and the streets ran even more blood.

Jaime charged, kicking his new horse into a gallop. He was tired, breathless and roasting in his armour, but he needed to keep fighting. An old man lunged forward, in a rusted coat of mail and armed with nothing more than a chain on the end of a staff. Jaime blocked the chain with his shield and hastened to stab the man in the throat. He pressed forward, slashing and stabbing anyone who opened themselves up for him. His arms pulsed from the strain.

All around him, the faith militant were taking a beating. The Silent Lions were like nothing Jaime had ever seen before. They shrugged off blows like they were nothing. Even hammers did little. They pressed forward, standing shoulder to shoulder, thrusting their spears. They slayed all in their path. Despite that, they couldn’t match Ser Robert Strong.

With a shriek, Jaime’s new horse collapsed and the Lord Commander with it. Lannister barely collected his bearings when a knight of the Warrior’s Sons stood before him. “The Warrior Above,” he cried through his great helm. “Guide my swor—” He didn’t finished his sentence when a crossbow bolt pieced his neck and the rainbow knight collapsed, mailed hands trying to yank the bolt out before giving up. Turning around, Jaime saw the last remaining Warrior’s Sons and Poor Fellows retreating under arrow fire.

_That will buy us some time until the Targaryens themselves arrive_. He could hear the fighting growing louder and louder. With some help, he was pulled to his feet. Underneath his armour and padding, Jaime could feel many of his ribs were broken.

"Ser Jaime!” cried a man atop the barricades, hands covering his bloodied side. “Thank to the merciful gods you came. I don’t know what they would have done.”

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” was the response. Jaime looked at the defenders who were all tired and haggard. “Where are the alchemists? What of the wildfire?” Cersei had them making the substance even during the battle. The novices were to carry their freshly constructed brew to the walls. From the scorched bodies in the streets, it was clear many had fallen victim to it. He grimaced at the sight.

“All are gone,” the commander said, leaning on the railings, grunting as he did so. “The Wisdoms are all in the Red Keep. The novices haven't returned. We’re defending a pointless building. An empty shell. There is no more wildfire left.”

_It’s all in the city and . ._   _._ Jaime felt his body go cold and he turned to the Red Keep. _What is that fool going to do?_  Nothing pretty he was sure.

Any thoughts he had were quickly gone when he heard the shout, “Over there.” Jaime turned to where a column of black soldiers charged towards them. Under assault from volleys of arrows and men throwing slate from atop the roofs. With shields above their heads, the Targaryen army pushed through regardless.

Tasting the blood in his mouth, Jaime reformed the line and prepared to defend the barricades once more. They didn’t have long to reform when the horde pressed against them, shields and spears fighting against each other. Jaime was thankful that his armour was plate, otherwise he was dead. Steel spearheads brushed against the mail trying to find the gaps.

One man pushed through the phalanx with a poleaxe raised above his head. With a deafening roar, he smashed an outstretched arm of a Silent Lion. The metal bent, as did the arm underneath. It didn’t bleed though, to both Jaime and the man’s surprised. Instead, it sprayed forth an inky black substance that smelled of death and worse things. Masked clad demons they were. Every figure of his being told him to leave, to flee, to hide. Whatever he was fighting with now certainly wasn’t human. Not even close.

Despite everything, despite the inhuman warriors and the defenders raining down bolts and arrows and rubble, the sellswords and their Unsullied allies gained ground. Jaime deflected a spear thrust with his sword and punched the man with his dented golden hand that had lost more than a few fingers. The Kingslayer wagered he was going to lose more body parts before this battle was over. He smashed the man in the helm with the pommel, sending him falling to the floor to be ended by a Lannister spearman.

Many of the men on the barricades had ran out of ammunition and were picking up whatever they could get a hand of, either throwing it or joining the battle in the street. It was like trying to throw pebbles to stop a river. The black tide pushed deeper and faster. Jaime and his force were pushed back. Their formation quick to break apart and many fought for their own survival.

Jaime withdraw, watching his enemy swarm forward, shouting war cries. Their cries soon turned to screams when they charged directly into a volley of arrows. Wooden shafts pieced their bodies, tripping the others behind who in turn were surrounded by a group red cloaks.

“Archers,” came the barely audio voice of Ser Addam Marbrand with a retinue of longbowmen and a line of spearmen in front. They sent another volley into the invaders. Taking his chance, Jaime ordered a tactical withdraw to the narrower streets.

Grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back, Addam looked at him. His face was bloodied and burnt. Compared to the handsome man he once was, Ser Marbrand now looked half a corpse. “We can’t hold them, Jaime. The city is lost. You’re the highest ranking man here. Call for a surrender, bend the knee. We can’t win this fight. Not this war. The streets are a bloodbath.”

Then there was a roar.

“Dragon!” someone cried.

Everyone, regardless of their allegiance looked up to see two dragons. White and green. Both diving down to where a group of archers stood atop a house. The green-scaled beast grabbed a man up with its claws and threw him into the street, while the other used its mass as it dived down and threw a tight group of men into the air.

“Fall back!” Jaime instinctively shouted. “Fall back!”

The words were followed instantly. So much that it became a rout. “Retreat! Run!” the words echoed as men fell back without another word, those not fast enough falling to the points of Targaryen steel.

The city was lost. It had always been lost. Cersei had been certain wildfire would be their way to victory, but it wasn’t. As he scampered through the streets, Ser Jaime Lannister turned to the Red Keep where Tommen and Cersei were hiding. 

Above him the dragon flew south and Jaime knew with all his heart the River Gate was lost.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys

The walls sang with the screams of men.

Now her army pushed forward unabated. Mounted on the back of Meraxes and with Vhagar trailing behind, Dany liberated the walls of defenders. The bricks blackened by fire and many of the battlements were coated in flames, fueling the thick plumes that made her choke. Beneath her, men cried. There couldn’t be a worse sight. Fires burnt through their skin to the bone, the flames blackening their fresh and boiled their fat. It wasn't like the stories she read about, not the valiant battles of the Dance of the Dragons or Aegon's Conquest. It looked more like a nightmare than anything else.

Her dragon soared upwards and circled the battlefield. Looking down, Daenerys could see the Golden Company push through the barricades within the city, alongside Dornish and what looked like armed peasants. _The people rise for their rightful king_. She smiled briefly at that and ordered another dive near the Old Gate where Tyrell soldiers were holding the gates against Lord Tarly and his men. Shouting, “ _Dracarys_ ,” the white dragon sprayed forth liquid flame. The fires climbed up the walls and ignited the wooden hoardings and towers. Pots of wildfire exploded in a chain-reaction, throwing chunks of pottery and flaming wood into the air. Her child rose to get away from the shrapnel.

_If that’s the damage a few pots do . . ._ she didn’t want to think about the ones underneath the city or the ones still in the Alchemists Guild. Tyrion Lannister did warn her and Dany urged herself to be more careful. As much as she knew, the fires could soon spread to a massive stockpile. Therefor the guildhall was a major target that was currently experiencing heavy fighting. They fought in the street, pushing against each other as the streets ran red with blood, filling the gutters as men climbed over each other.

Meraxes roared and swooped down. The dragon's wings spread and threw the archers from atop the buildings. She couldn't use fire, not here. The men of the false king panicked. Routing, they dropped their weapons and hurried as fast as their legs could carry them. _Let them run. My dragons unman them_. Her own men on the ground cheered, giving chase while a detachment moved to secure the guildhall. The Alchemists guildhall was theirs, and with that, no more wildfire. Smiling at the achievement of that, Daenerys soared out the range of the few remaining archers and flew back south where the final resistance was being fought.

The trebuchets in Fishmongers Square that had once been chucking stone at the ships had collapsed into piles of ash. Behind the walls, ships were disembarking more and more men from across the river. Daenerys Targaryen gasped at the sight of a massive man encased in plate slowly withdraw through the streets, taking fire from archers and slaying anyone who got too close. The gates had been smashed open, but there was stubborn resistance still. Meraxes roared, followed by his brother. She ordered them to circle above and a few arrows shot past her. Meraxes let out a pained moan from where one found it's mark. _You poor thing. Don’t worry it’s nearly over_. Looking at the men below still letting loose projectiles, she gritted her teeth. _You’ll pay for that_. No one would hurt one of her children.

Lining up, both dragons plummeted towards the walls – Meraxes leading and Vhagar following behind. It was a graceful glide and with the shout came another spray of fire. Men screamed and others jumped off the walls to escape their fiery death.

In that moment, the walls south of the city were clear and the Lannisters fled deeper into King’s Landing. Her army wasn’t progressing through as quickly as she wanted though. When they reached the first barricade, sellsword archers took cover, shooting their crossbows at the kingsguard who stopped withdrawing and lumbered forward once more. Legionaries dragged their injured companions back as others charged forward trying to at least slow the knight down. One lunged forward, throwing a javelin. The spear simply bounced off the thick steel, at most it forced the knight to pause from the force for the briefest moment. A horseman charged straight and when the two met, the horse rose up on two legs and started kicking. It stopped its assault when the plated man punched the poor creature in the skull, going right through and the horse fell on top of its rider. It was like nothing could destroy that man and it seemed fewer were trying.

_They need my help_. 

Meraxes circled until she looked straight down. The men rallied behind the Kingsguard, motivated by his butchery. Before the barricade they formed a line of spears. On top the raised position behind them, crossbowmen fired at her. “Meraxes, make them cower.” The dragon roared, flying less gracefully than before. It saddened her. The giant with his sword and heavy shield stared up at her. What had been the white armour of the kingsguard had turned brown and red and grey, but the colourful plumes were as bright as ever. His size reminded Dany of the Mountain, but Dany had been told that the Mountain was dead, killed by Prince Oberyn Martell.

“ _Dracarys!_ ”

Meraxes open its maw once more and let loose a torrent of flame. Fire erupted around the white cloak, coiling and blackening the woollen. The plumes set alight so it looked like he was wearing a fiery crown. Her child didn’t stop and continued to the barricade and set it alight. The men of the spearwall had no where to run to, and those behind barely had time to get away. All screamed nightmarishly before succumbing to their fate. Daenerys flew up and turned around and saw the giant remain standing despite everything. His armour was glowing red hot and the metal seemed to run down like ice when exposed to a naked flame. The knight took one step forward, then . . . collapsed. Even though he was dead, sellswords still approached like like cautious deer.

With a sigh of relief, Daenerys turned to the Red Keep. _Where are you, Egg? Where are you?_

 

* * *

 

Jaime

The Red Keep stood before him.

It rose from Aegon’s Hill, unaffected by the battle so far. Even though isolated pockets were still fighting over the city, it would fall soon enough and the castle would be the next target. He knew that the Targaryens would not yet dare attack the Red Keep, as of yet, even if they had dragons. For the time being his family were safe.

A line of guardsmen held the gate and standing on the walls were archers watching the dragons flying above. Two dragons now, not three. Jaime could only pray one had been shot down. _The black one, the one carrying Rhaegar’s son_. On the ground were the corpses of wealthy merchants and nobles and soldiers, bolts driven through their bodies. They must have begged the gates be opened and be sheltered inside.

Seeing him, the guardsmen shouted to their officer and the gates soon opened. The knight in charge was a large man, with broad shoulders and gaunt features. It took Jaime a moment to realise the man was part of the strategic reserve. They were meant to be the last force available, but even they were battered and bloody, covered with ash from the fires happening throughout the city. “What are you doing here, ser,” Jaime couldn’t help but ask. They were meant to be in the city, but in truth, Jaime couldn’t care less.

“We withdrew here,” the man said, grunting through his pain. “Look, Lord Commander, are you blind? We can’t fight there.”

He didn’t recognise the man, so the commander put in charge was either dead or captured. _Likely the former_. “Where are the others? Where are the rest of your men?” It was a pointless question in truth. They would have been sent to suppress the riots in Flee Bottom or be pressed to fight against the Faith Militant. From what Jaime heard, the first and third reserve retreated to the Sister Tower and got encircled. In response, they fortified the barracks into a bastion. They couldn’t be saved.

“Ser Jaime . . . what do we do?”

“Do what you must. I won’t order you to throw away your lives needlessly. If you want to fight, do so. If not, leave the Red Keep and bend the knee. It makes no difference now.” _To retreat to the Red Keep would only delay the inevitable_.

The knight nodded. “If so, Ser Jaime. I’ll stand my ground. It would be wrong of a knight to flee. There is honour in death. No honour in fleeing.”

_There is no honour with what’s going on here_. The city was what he imagined what would have happened if Aerys got his final wish. Ushering him inside, Jaime staggered, fumbling to remove his straps and letting his plate drop on the ground. Courtiers and soldiers rushed to him, begging for news or orders, many asking if they were going to bend the knee to the Targaryens. The soldiers were exhausted and the courtiers desperate and pleading. Some even sounded like they still had a chance for victory.

“Take me to my sister,” was all Jaime could say to their questions. It was a red cloak that showed him the way.

The doors to the Great Hall were thrown open and Jaime limped forward. His heavy boots echoed through the massive hall that contained only four people in its entirety.

His sister, Cersei Lannister, queen regent of the young king, sat atop the Iron Throne, dressed in splendid silken garments of crimson and gold. Bright emeralds wrapped around her neck on a golden chain. Her hair was short, but bright gold. He remembered that hair, how long and wavy it had been, the silken tussles he pulled back when they were in their lovemaking. That was but now a faded memory. Cersei’s face was pale, and her eyes scared, but she hid it well like she’d always done with a fierce determination that promised she wouldn’t submit.

Beneath the Iron Throne were three people. Her Hand, Lord Hallyne of the Alchemist’s Guild, and his fellow pyromancers. Jaime froze at the sight.

Cersei looked down at him, then smiled sadly.

 

* * *

 

Aegon

The cellars were dark. The walls were slanted and illuminated up by torches as it held up a massive vaulted ceilings. None of them desired to make a sound, but their boots and mail made it hellishly difficult. Despite the thickness of the walls, above, the prince could hear muffled shouts. _They've either found us or are still dealing with the siege_. He hadn’t a clue which.

Making a turn, Aegon saw something in the corner of his eye. Dragon skulls. They reflected the glow of their torches. The bones were like polished onyx, their mouths were wide to reveal rows of teeth like curved daggers. _So these are the old Targaryen dragons._ Aegon must had trailed off as he began to count them. Nineteen he saw. Some gigantic, while others were less than the size of a dog’s skull. All were beautiful and scary at the same time. The largest could only be the first Balerion ridden by the conqueror himself. Large enough to swallow an aurochs whole. Aegon wondered if theirs could even grow near the size of his ancestors.

“My prince,” Ser Barristan said, his voice muffled by his helm. “We need to move quickly before they’re aware of our presence.”

Aegon snapped back into consciousness. “Agreed.” Turning back to the dragons he could only feel fury. He hated that the usurpers had put them down in the cold and damp. _They are dragons, they deserved better_. When the throne was his, he planned to put them back in the throne room where they belonged. Things needed to change, so many things.

They hurried through the halls with the Lord Commander leading the way out the cellars and up the spiral stairs. Ser Barristan kicked the iron studded doors open and the Golden Company flooded out, weapon at the ready for anyone who dared cross their path.

“Close formation,” Lord Jon ordered. The sellswords formed a square around their prince as they moved forward. Aegon didn’t like being surrounded, he would rather lead at front, but he knew that guards could be lurking in the corridors ready to spring forth. 

Progressing forward, Aegon heard muffled shouts, cries and the clashing of steel and wood. _They know_. While twenty-five stood with him, the rest of their force was split into groups of the same number where they would take the Red Keep from various points, hopefully simultaneously. The prince glanced at his protectors and all had the same thought. Aegon dropped the visor of his sallet helm with a _clang_ and unsheathed Blackfyre. This was the moment he'd been preparing his life for.

What had been a cautious advance became a rush. The few guards they encountered were easily overwhelmed by superior numbers. More than once, Aegon stopped to listen to the rest of the fighting erupting throughout the keep and wagered most of the garrison was in turmoil dealing with multiple incursions. The few servants they encountered rushed to safety within various room, all of which Jon barred if possible.

Taking another turn towards the throne room, blocking their way was a line of guardsmen. All the soldiers were armoured in mail and padding. One stepped forward in full plate of a Reach knight. The men of the Golden Company stood ready to meet him with sword, axes and hammers.

“Surrender, ser.” Ser Barristan demanded, stepping forward, gracefully holding his sword in a fighting stance despite his advanced age. “We would rather there not be bloodshed. Save the lives of yourself and your men.”

A Tyrell knight pulled out a warhammer. “Bloodshed has already been spilled, ser. What say you for joining the dragon against the rightful king? We all heard stories of Ser Barristan the Bold. They told us he was a true knight, an honourable one. A true knight doesn’t abandon the king he swore to protect.”

“The rightful king is here,” Barristan Selmy replied. “Surrender now or I’ll cut you down like so many who have crossed my blade.”

The Tyrell knight spat on the ground before dropping his visor. No more words were said. Both sides charged and the hall echoed with the clashing of steel. Spears thrust forward, scratching painted wood and deflecting off steel. Two gold cloaks were easily downed by Jon and Rolly’s hand. It was the knights that caused the two lines to break where it turned into a slaughter. While spears were effective at mid-range, they were too cumbersome for close quarters. It was here were hammers and swords and maces ruled supreme.

Aegon parried the thrust of a spearman with Blackfyre, stepped forward and slicing the massive man across the face. Blood ran down where the nose had once been. The guard staggered back and another was quick to take his place, charging forward and shouting, “For Queen Margaery!” He didn’t get far when a sellsword drove the beak of his poleaxe in his back.

The prince barely threw himself back as another spear thrust towards him. Aegon almost staggered before he regained his baring where he pressed into the offensive. Blackfyre, despite its size, was light and agile in his hand. It parried and slashed, deflected and thrust. One red cloak fell victim from where the spell-forged steel bit into the skin of his neck, allowing his life blood to spray forth. Without wasting a second, Aegon turned to another soldier who lunged forward and shouting at the top of his lungs. The fool didn’t last a second when Aegon ducked underneath the axe and slammed him into the wall where he brought Blackfyre into an arc with a flick of his wrist. That sent the soldier sliding down the painted surface, holding the stump where his hand had been. The old man begged for mercy yet received none. He had his chance. As soon as that was done, Aegon turned to see Ser Barristan duelling with the Tyrell knight. Thrice Ser Barristan showed an opening and thrice the old knight closed it before the younger man had a chance. Aegon rushed forward and smashed the knight in the back of the head with his crossguard. The strike was strong enough to dent the metal helm. The knight collapsed onto his knees where he stared up at the Kingsguard with a sword pressed against his neck.

“Surrender, ser,” Aegon said as the surviving defenders dropped their weapons, either scattering like child thieves or submitting to their superiors. “Surrender and your life will be spared.”

The knight threw off his helm. Blood ran down his face. “Never, pretender.” As if in a final attempt to be a dragonslayer, he tried to pull out a knife. Before he could even get his hand to the handle, the sword went through. The Reachman fell to the marble floor, holding onto his neck and the crimson fluid pooled underneath him.

Aegon gave the man the briefest of glances before turning to his Lord Commander. “What way to them?” Aegon knew nothing of the Red Keep having only been there when he was a babe, but it was was known to all that Maegors holdfast would be the final defence for the royal family. _A fortress within a fortress_ , Jon had said once. Ser Barristan asked they follow with a motion.

As they raced through the Red Keep, they encountered groups of their own. Under the command of the Dornish and the other group of the Golden Company, the gates had been secured, trapping the defenders both inside and out. While Aegon knew the garrison outnumbered them, they had the element of surprise and that made all the difference.

“Just this way,” Jon Connington said, almost running but stopped when they encountered another group of guardsmen. There was a line of them. Red cloaks in ringmail, plate and leather, alongside two white knights in enamelled scale. There were other knights as well, but these were from the Westerlands. Against them, just more than half the Golden Company remained. They formed up. Jon stepped forward. “Step aside, sers. In the name of your king.”

Aegon eyed the two kingsguard with their visors up. One stood tall with droopy eyes and a copper beard as well as a golden sunburst crest, he easily looked the more formidable of the two. The other one was an ugly man with heavy jowls and a flat nose that looked to be using all his strength just to remain on his feet. _If this is what the boy king has to protect him they might as well be air_. The prince smirked. Though the men looked much to be desired, their armour was the best. Both kingsguard wore layers of plate over riveted mail atop a gambeson. Nothing, not even Valyrian steel was going through that. They could only be brought down by blunt force trauma.

“A pretender,” the red-bearded one spat before pulling out his sword. “We serve only the true king.”

“A boy,” Aegon growled, “ _the_ pretender. Not me. Now stand aside or I’ll send you to the seven hells.” The fat one looked ready walk away, but stopped when he saw the others weren’t. _He isn’t fit for the white cloak_. There were still five slots to fill and Aegon was going to make sure it was filled by those who were worthy of the kingsguard. “Then if that’s the case, prepare to taste blood.”

“Your own, dragon.”

“Strong words for the likes of yourselves,” Ser Barristan muttered as he rose his visor. “Ser Trant and Ser Boros, you soil the name of the Kingsguard. I feared the day when ones such as yourselves protected the king. Paper shields, if you can be called that. While you won’t offer any challenge, at least I know this will be quick.”

Red-faced Boros cursed. “The only ones dying will be you and your puppet of a dragon.”

Once more, Aegon felt the battle fever come on as well as his own anger. Adrenaline pumped through his body, heightening his senses and narrowing his mind with his objective; to push through those the vermin before him and reach the throne room. His hands pulsed through his supple gloves, tightening and relaxing around the handle of his blade.

Within a heartbeat, they fought.

Aegon lunged toward Ser Meryn Trant. The prince blocked the strike from the larger knight, staggering back as he did so. The old man’s attacks were strong but clumsy. Aegon knew he couldn’t outreach him, so instead evaded until he saw an opening. Parrying and misguiding his opponents strike, Aegon slid his hand up to grasp the blade just above the crossguard then sprang forward. Twisting his blade around his opponent’s, Aegon drove his shoulder into Ser Trant. The soiled knight cursed, fighting to regain his balance. It gave Aegon enough space and time to spin Blackfyre around and – remembering his lessons with Jon – grabbed the blade with both hands. When Trant lunged, Aegon stepped back, caught his opponent's blade with his own. The two twisted for control, an inch away from grappling each other to the floor. Aegon sidestepped, slamming the knight’s head with the crossguard. The knight staggered and was soon on the ground. The Kingsguard looked up just before Aegon smashed him again then again with all his might.

The Targaryen prince didn’t have long to relax when a red cloak charged him, blood seeped down the man’s face and neck. He was too close for Aegon to respond easily and the prince tripped over the body of the man he just killed. The guard lacked any form of discipline, but he didn’t need it. With all his strength he smashed his crossguard against the prince’s helm, hitting the side of the head.

The next thing Aegon knew, he was on the floor. His vision was blurry and his ears rang. Sticky warmth dripped down of his neck that could only be blood. The red cloak didn’t last long, between the haziness of Aegon's vision, the man collapse, Duck’s sword driven through his throat. The prince didn’t have long to enjoy the visuals, he felt his stomach rise up. Despite his lessons, despite his situation, he threw his helmet off and fumbled to remove to straps off his bevor. He didn’t do it quickly enough and the curved metal filled it with his own vomit.

It was Lord Jon Connington who came to his aid. As soon as he could, Aegon threw the piece of armour away. He was thankful a man handed him a linen cloth. In truth, Aegon never expected to vomit in battle, and certainly not _within_ his armour. When most of it was gone from his face, he spat on the ground. _Wine, I need wine_. The taste in his mouth was horrible. Forcing himself up, Aegon still felt sick. His head continued to ring so he pressed his back against the wall, trying to regain his bearings.

“Are you alight, my prince?” Jon asked, his pale-blue eyes wide with desperation. There was a deep dent in his plate armour and he spoke like he was in pain.

His ward didn’t answer immediately and looked at the ground where the rest of the guards were either dead or dying, as were sellswords. The Targaryen prince looked at the remaining men beside him. Ser Duck and Barristan had their mail covered in blood, their faces gasping for breath. Despite his injury, Aegon found it amusing that the Lord Commander looked less tired than the younger Duck.

Turning back to Jon, he said weakly, “I’m fine. Nothing more than a knock on the head. Nothing to be concerned with.” The prince forced a grin, feeling his gut ready to throw up again. He didn’t want to do it all over the man who raised him. Underneath all his padding, Aegon felt feverishly hot. It didn’t help that all his mail made it feel like he was cooking in an oven. He turned to the heavy doors. “Is this it? The throne room?”

“It is, my prince. Pray, be cautious. We don't know who's inside. The Kingslayer will protect his kin, as will the beast we’ve heard so much about.”

Aegon frowned. Now his mind was beginning to clear. When he stood up, he wobbled and Ser Barristan was quick to take his arm to stop him from falling. The prince felt the urge to escape his grasp. “I’m done with caution. My whole life I’ve been cautious. We’re here now. The throne room is in front and soon the Iron Throne will be mine.” His head snapped and he forced himself from the Lord Commander's grasp. “Open the doors!” He hoped the Kingslayer was waiting so he could kill the Lannister with his own hands. Even with the world moving around him, Aegon would do so. The door opened and they entered, with the prince leading the way and his kingsguard at his flanks.

He didn’t get far when he saw what waited for them.

The queen regent laid on the hard floor at the steps of the throne. Her eyes stared at him like cut emeralds and completely lifeless. Fear plastered her pale features. Aegon’s gaze slowly looked up at the Kingslayer crouching over her. He looking at the group with reddened eyes.

_So this is Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer_. In no way was he how Aegon envisioned him. The prince was told of a tall handsome warrior who was unmatched by all but the greatest knights. What he saw was a cripple with only one hand, wiry blond hair darkened by dirt and soot, a heavy beard and haggard features. The eyes he once heard as being bright and green as newly polished emeralds now looked lifeless as the corpse beneath him.

“Kingslayer,” Ser Barristan spat with venom as he pressed his sword to the Lannister’s throat. The remaining sellswords formed a loose circle around the only Lannister in the room. “Or should i say Queenslayer. Not to mention kin.”

“I’m surprised you’re not sitting atop the Iron Throne like when you killed my grandfather.” _He did deserve to get stabbed in the back, but my mother didn’t deserve to be raped nor did my sister deserve to be stabbed_. That thought fuelled his anger towards the creature beneath him. “Do you know who I am, Lannister?”

The kingslayer looked at him, his entire face looked weakened and deathly pale. “Aegon Targaryen—”

“ _Prince_ Aegon Targaryen, ser,” Rolly roared, kicking the man’s sword to the side.

“ _Prince_ Aegon Targaryen, my mistake. You must forgive me. I believed you dead all these years.”

“Everyone did,” the prince replied with bitterness in his voice. “Now you can see I’m alive. No thanks to you.” Ser Jaime looked puzzled. “ _You_. While you were stabbing your king in the back, my family was butchered.” He was pacing much quicker, the urge to grab Blackfyre and spill the traitor’s blood was strong. _No, he needs to hear this_. “You stabbed your king and left my mother and sister to be with your father’s dogs. _Half a hundred times Rhaenys was stabbed and my mother was raped before having her head crushed!”_ Aegon was screaming by that point. “ _It was your duty as a knight of the kingsguard to protect the king and the royal family! My mother and sister were of the royal family! Why didn’t you protect them, ser? Why didn’t you protect my family?_ ” He could feel some tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

Jon Connington and his kingsguard looked at him with some concern, his foster father mouthed a word the prince didn't hear. 

Aegon didn’t give Lannister a chance to explain before he smashed the kingslayer across the face with a steel gauntlet. Jaime Lannister reeled back, blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth. Lannister fell back first onto the marble floor. Aegon didn’t let that stopped him as he leapt atop, throwing punches and kicks. He started punching, harder and harder, faster and faster.

“Aegon. _AEGON!_ ” A voice shouted and powerful arms grabbed him only to pull back. The prince fought against it and tried to land more strikes on the oathbreaker. “Stop it! Stop it, Aegon!” The voice was Jon’s. “You will be king. Start to bloody act like it,” those words were hissed down his ear and Aegon wiped his eyes.

The Kingslayer’s face was slick with blood. Forcibly, he sat up, breathing heavily and stared down – though not enough to look at Cersei Lannister’s corpse. His eyes were of a man who’d just given up, and his voice was hoarse. “I-I had no idea what was going to happen. As a member of the kingsguard I was told to stay with the king . . . until the bitter end.”

“Never stopped you from killing him, Lannister,” Ser Barristan spat.

The disgraced knight ignored it. “I killed the king and then the men of the Westerlands arrived, I told Lord Roland Crakehall to proclaim who he wanted as the new king. Either you or Viserys. I had no idea what was going on in the nursery. I did not. I planned on having the entire garrison surrender—”

“So me and my family would have been killed later, is that it?” Aegon growled, springing free of Connington’s hold. He pressed Blackfyre against the kingslayer’s throat. “Is that all you have to say? Why shouldn’t I just sentence you to death now?” He really wanted to, he really did, more than anything else in the world.

Jaime looked down at the corpse for a brief moment, then averted his gaze to the side. “Kill me if you so wish. In many ways I deserve it. I betrayed what it meant to be a true knight, all what I wanted when I was a child.” Turning up to Ser Barristan, he said, “You were my hero, ser, and others like you. I killed King Aerys the second of his name, and would do so again in the same situation. I wanted to make peace with my father when I knew the battle was lost. When I brought it up to King Aerys, he told me to kill my lord father and be a kinslayer. But that wasn’t the reason I killed him . . . not the only reason. It was the wildfire. King Aerys had filled the underneath of King’s Landing with the substance. The Sept of Baelor, Flea Bottom and even the Red Keep. I realised he wanted to burn the entire city down.” Jaime shook his head and clinched his face like it was a bad memory. “I killed him and his new Hand. That was when Lord Crakehall and Ser Elys barged in. Be a kingslayer and save the city. Your family would have died if the Mad King got his wish. I will not deny that I’ve come to regret what happened to them. I should have done more, that I will admit. So if you wish to kill me and get your revenge, do it. I would have saved your mother and sister if I knew about Lorch and the Mountain.” He spat out some blood and inhaled sharply. “That was also why I killed my sister. She killed Tommen with sweetsleep then she was going to burn the keep and everyone in it.”

The silence was deafening.

Taking a breath, the prince broke it, his words heavy. “Ser Jaime of the House Lannister. For the crimes of failing in your duties as the kingsguard and for slaying the king you were sworn to protect, I judge you guilty.” Aegon turned to the sellswords. “Keep him under guard. If he moves so much as a finger, kill him. Take him away. I want him alive when this ends.” He was sure Daenerys will want to watch the sentence of her father’s murderer, even if said king was mad. He turned to Jaime who was pulled to his feet. They spoke no words, only looking into each other’s eyes. The men of the Golden Company restrained the kingslayer’s hands, or at least one of them. Looking down at Cersei, he thought,  _Is it just a thing for Lannister’s to be kinslayers?_

The oathbreaker didn’t resist. He just let it happen. When Jaime was dragged to his feet, he opened his mouth, “You got your wish, Targaryen. Both Myrcella, and Tommen are dead. Enjoy your throne built atop the corpses of children.”

_How dare he!_ “I did not kill them.” He had thought both Tommen and his sister alive and within Maegor’s holdfast. _How will the Dornish react?_ On one hand they demanded blood for blood, on the other they did have Myrcella betrothed to the young Tystane. That wasn’t to mention that he’d promised Tyrion Lannister that his niece and nephew would survive. Just before the Kingslayer was dragged away, Aegon grabbed his shoulder and tightened his hold. “You were there in the throne room when Robert walked in. Did he smile?” He heard the stories of Robert Baratheon smiling when the bodies were presented. _Tell me that it’s not true_.

The kingslayer turned to him. “He did. He said he saw no babes, only dragonspawn. That was what he called the boy and Rhaenys.”

“Smiling? The usurper was _smiling_?” In some ways, even though the prince hated Robert Baratheon with every part of his being, he wished that the usurper didn’t smile at the sight of dead children. Aegon went red and his fists began to shake once more. “If only Baratheon was still alive. I would kill him with my bare hands.” He looked at the sword in his hands. _Cut him from neck to groin and see what tumbles out his belly_. Aegon turned to the man with the banner. “Raise the flag.”

The sellsword bowed his head and hurried off.

Ser Jaime Lannister was dragged away, leaving only four in the great hall. Ser Barristan spoke up, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “Your Grace, if I was there, I would have killed the Robert when Lord Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of your mother and sister. No army would have stopped me.”

_Except the one that held you prisoner_. “I’m sure many true men would do likewise.” He sighed. It was hearing the Lannister’s words which tired him the most, not the fighting. _Regardless of his actions, he still done it. He allowed my sister and mother to die whilst he had his arse planted on the throne._ “Where are the king’s chambers?” Tommen may be dead but his body was likely there, or somewhere else entirely. Maegors holdfast, Aegon was told. _Hopefully the Legion were successful_.

Ser Barristan led them there. On the way, Aegon saw many corpses, most being servants who had been caught up in the fighting, the defenders, as well as Dornishmen and sellswords. He saw Dany in the sky, circling above with Vhagar flying beside her, unhurt compared to Meraxes. Below, whole sections of the city were on fire.

It didn’t take long to reach the massive square fortress of Maegor’s Holdfast. The drawbridge was down, allowing them access over the dry moat lined with a bed of spikes and a few bodies. One legionnaire stood in the centre of the bridge. “My prince,” he called in the accent of Tyrosh. “My prince, the king—boy . . . he’s dead. The boy is dead. Poison most likely. Not a single wound on him. We burst through the door with hammers and axes. We found him on the bed. White as snow and cold as ice.” Aegon already knew and didn’t stop crossing the bridge. The sellsword trailed behind.

_The kingslayer told us._ He sighed. Ser Barristan looked upset while Jon hid his thoughts, though Aegon doubted he really cared. Hearing the fate of Tommen and Myrcella, Aegon was positive this would hinder the co-operation with Tyrion Lannister and Westerlands. “A shame. What of the kingsguard? The Tyrell queen?”

“We got her. The bitch was hiding in the ballroom with her ladies as well as a few men. Only two guards were with her but they’re no more. The highborn have all been captured for your pleasure, my prince.”

_Scare the poor girls why don’t you._ “It would be my pleasure if the boy was still alive.” He grimaced. _The father survives but not the son_. “Take me to them.” They entered the holdfast and the queen’s ballroom. It was much smaller than the Great Hall though more pleasant. Still couldn’t compete with Illyrio’s manse though.

Everyone who survived taking the holdfast was rounded up in the centre: servants, alive but injured guards, highborn men, women and children. Aegon scanned the room. No shredded clothes, he was pleased to see. It seemed they were co-operative. Surrounding them were sellswords with their weapons drawn as if a group of predominately women could pose a threat. A few of the ladies were crying and trying to comfort each other like he was a monster. _They’ll know that isn’t the case soon enough._

Jon Connington stepped forward. “Rise for the true king of Westeros, Aegon Targaryen, son of Crown Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell. Rightful king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First name. Sixth of his name and protector of the realm.” Few said anything besides muffled cries or begs for mercy. Most stood up but a few remained seated on the ground. Aegon took note of who they were.  

“Stand,” demanded the sellsword serjaent. “Stand for your future king else we’ll force you up.”

Aegon stopped him with a hand gesture. “The castle is now ours and soon so will be the city. You are now prisoners of the crown. Anything you say and do will be used against you when you are judged. As long as you don’t do anything foolish, you’ll be treated respectfully according to your station. But be warned, I’ll not tolerate any action used against me, my family or allies. Those who do can expect quick and just punishment.” That was mostly aimed at the lords in attendance. While he didn’t know who they were, he recognised their heraldry. Some were from the Reach, some from the Westerlands and some from the few Crownland houses who refused to join his banner. Regardless of where they were born, all were useful hostages. None more than the Tyrell queen who’d be the key bargaining chip against Highgarden.

Connington ordered everyone else to sit beside one. “Lady Margaery Tyrell, rise.”

There was hesitation, but the girl did as was bid. Aegon had to admit she was comely. Margaery Tyrell had large brown eyes, lazy brown curls and unblemished skin. She wore a myrish silk dress of green and gold. She approached him, and lowered her gaze, preferring to look at his boots rather than his face. It made him wonder if he still had sick crusting his face. _What an entrance if that’s the case._ Aegon felt humiliated just by the thought. “You were queen but now you'll bend the knee and submit. With your husband dead you'll relinquish any claim your family has on the throne.” She had no choice but to bend. It was the Martell words, _unbowed, unbent and unbroken_. The Tyrell words were _growing strong_. Recent history had made it clear that the Tyrells weren't strong anymore.

The girl looked up for a brief moment before looking down again. “I, Margaery of House Tyrell now remove any claim to the throne. I promise to serve you loyally and without question, in any way you wish. May I just ask one thing?” She looked up and looked she was about to cry. Both Duck and Barristan looked sympathetic. Jon instead groaned. “I just ask for mercy on those within the city and in the Red Keep.”

Aegon nodded. "That I'll allow." Without wasting time, he turned to Duck. “Escort Lady Margaery to the royal apartments and keep her there under guard.” The last thing he wanted was for her to find a way out. She was a most valuable hostage. “The rest can stay put until the city is under control.”

Duck bowed his head and with two others, escorted the former queen out.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys

It was then, after she informed Harry Strickland the situation of the city, that she saw the banner hanging from the Red Keep. At this distance it was dark, barely noticeable if not for the bright fire breathing dragon. But it was there for everyone to see. “It seems we took it,” she told the Captain General, who remained in the rear to oversee the battle. “The Red Keep is ours.” _The Red Keep has returned after so long_.

“It is, Princess Daenerys. Hopefully the two queens and boy king will be in your procession. They’ll be good hostages against the Lannisters and Tyrells. It may even make their families bend the knee.”

_Well, one of the queens is going to be executed for her actions. That is certain._  “Let’s hope.” Patting Meraxes on the side of the head, she gently said, “It should be all over now. You can relax soon enough.”

Dany returned to the sky and headed straight to the Red Keep. It was a massive building of pale red stone, with seven massive drum towers crowned with iron ramparts. There were massive curtain walls that would certainly have been hard to breach, even with the aid of the dragons. It was a good idea to sneak in rather than take it by storm. She didn’t see any men on the walls, but inside she heard the sounds of distant fighting.

Seeing nowhere else to settle, the dragon princess landed in what could only be the godswood. It was at least an acre in size, with leafless trees of elm, alder and black cottonwood, all overlooking Blackwater Rush. The ground was slippery with mud and snow. Daenerys remained at Meraxes' side until her nephew approached with the Golden Company and a group of Dornishmen. All looked worse for wear. Aegon looked pleased until his his eyes turned to Meraxes. The dragon was shaken, that was true, but Dany was certain he'll recover. “I saw our banner, so I assume the Red Keep is ours,” she said, her voice muffled before she removed her dragon-shaped helm. It felt good to remove it. “I’m very much relieved my prince is alive.” Daenerys smiled at her husband, though she moved back when he looked ready to embrace her. He looked hurt at that. "What of the Kingslayer and the queens? More importantly, what of the boy king?”

“Captured," Aegon answered. "One queen dead, the other captured. The boy king is dead. They claimed Tommen was killed by poison by his own mother.” She looked at him blankly, unable to think of any words to say to that revelation. “The Kingslayer accuses his sister of killing her own child with sweet sleep. The sellswords sent to capture Maegor’s Holdfast claim the boy had been poisoned. They found no wounds on him, nor signs of struggle.”

Dany didn’t know how to feel about that. Yes, the boy was just that, a boy, but he was also a threat. A danger to them and her children. _If I look back I am lost. I need to look to the future_. She looked at the Red Keep with a certain longing. “Take me to them. I want to meet the man who killed by father. I need to see him . . . the boy. The Tyrell as well.”

Aegon agreed to take her inside, telling her that Jaime Lannister was taken to the dungeons and that the queen consort was restrained in the royal apartments. On more than one occasion, Daenerys paused and allowed her eyes wander around. When Jon Connington asked about the city and how that was going, Daenerys answered with, “The city has mostly fallen, I’m proud to say. All the walls are ours and our men have now focused our attention to dealing with the blaze. There are, of course, a few isolated pockets of resistance, but they’ll be dealt with soon enough.” The fire was their main concern and she didn't want the fires to worsen. She feared how much was already alight.

“I see you were hit, my love,” Aegon said, his eyes on her size where a crossbow bolt had dented her plate, punching a small hole through the steel. It didn’t go through, though.

_And you've got sick on your chin_. It seemed rude to say that though. “Yes. When I dove an archer must have found me. Very close as well. It bounced off, thankfully.” She laughed, though it sounded forced. “Good thing it only hit my side, otherwise I won’t be here now.”

No one else laughed and Aegon shifted awkwardly. He looked like he wanted to chastise her for endangering herself. He was one to judge, seeing as he was much rasher when riding Balerion. His armour may have been heavier, but it had suffered as much of a beating, if not more.

Daenerys spoke up. “Nothing but a dent and possible bruise. I’m fine, Egg. Nothing for you to worry yourself over.” Dany brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes and continued. “The southernmost gate lasted out for longest. But that was due to a giant who was holding the gates. He wore the white armour of the kingsguard.”

“Giant?” Ser Duck asked. “Who was that?”

Dany shrugged. “A giant of a man. I don’t know for certain and he’ll certainly not be recognisable now. Not after his armour melted on him like molten slag. But he was the largest man I’ve ever seen, and strong enough to be an army in his own.” If it wasn’t for him, the Legion would have fulfilled their objective on the waterfront.

“And you killed him,” Rolly replied.

“And I killed him, or Meraxes did. His death allowed the army through the River Gate.”  They walked to the holdfast and she stopped before the drawbridge and looked down at the spikes in the dry moat where a few corpses lay. “To think the Lannister dogs sneaked through all these defences.” She frowned. “Just as you did, Aegon.” Turning to Ser Connington, she said, “When this city is ours, I want to secure the keep. I won’t have others sneaking into the keep. Enough have done so already.” No one disagree and as they proceeded through the halls they saw the results from when the Lannisters cleaned away parts of the walls in their quest to find the tunnels. They had failed in their objectives to seal them. _Maybe some are hidden inside_. That thought worried her. “The boy king, how old was he?”

Ser Barristan hesitated. “Ten, Your Grace.” That made her pause. “Tommen was a sweet boy. Not guilty of any of the wrong doings of his parents. The same for the princess Myrcella. Both were innocent.”

_Not Joffrey then_. She heard stories about the firstborn son. None of them painted him in a good light. “I did promise Tyrion Lannister. I made a pledge which I failed . . .” Her face clinched. _We’ve failed._ “Now they’re both are dead.”

Jon spoke up. “The dwarf is cunning but he isn’t loyal. He only looks out for his own interest. He is a kinslayer and kingslayer, after all, self-confessed I may add. Hated throughout the Seven Kingdoms before he even started his killing. The North hates him as do the Riverlands. The Reach and the Westerlands likewise. I doubt many vassal houses of his house are going to look at us favourably with him here. They definitely won’t want to be ruled by him.”

“He gave us important aid,” Aegon objected. “The houses he reported to have sympathies have joined us. When he comes here from Storm’s End he should be of more use.”

_Lord Varys would be able to keep an eye on him. He'll know_. Despite Aegon’s misgivings, Varys had proven himself a friend to House Targaryen. “What about Lady Margaery?” Dany asked. “She’ll be a valuable hostage. In our care, House Tyrell won’t rise against us. Her fate will be tied to her family’s actions.” With Tommen dead, the Tyrells had little reason to continue fighting, especially with their bannermen rising up against them all throughout the Reach in the midst of the Ironborn invasion.  _When the Tyrells fall in line, the Westerlands will lack allies and bend the knee_. Both were important regions, with gold and silver and fertile soil. _When they're ours we’ll be less reliant on Essos to feed our army and people_. 

Aegon turned to Lord Connington. “My lord, you shall go and make sure the castle is under our control and, if possible, aid with the fires. No one here wants to rule over a ruin.” Her protector and father-figure bowed his head and hurried off. Aegon turned to her, “Shall we go inside, my love?”

Daenerys didn’t need to be told twice and they entered the chamber where the former Tyrell queen was being held. She was a pretty girl who sat submissive beside the bed. At their entrance, the girl gracefully rose up and curtsied. It was clear in her brown doe-like eyes that she was scared, even if the rest of her face was a mask. “My king . . . my queen . . . what is it you both wish of me?”

_My queen_. She could almost taste the word. There was a certain pleasure in hearing a former enemy say it. The dragon princess let her purple eyes linger on the supposed maiden of Highgarden. She slowly formed a victorious smile. “A few things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter I’ve written (20k words.) In the original draft this was only meant to be shown in a single Aegon chapter, but I decided against that so I made it multi-POV chapter. This is my first multi-POV, so please tell me what you think. Took a while to write and edit the newer version, but I think it’s improved. Apologies for any potential misspellings. Editing this has been more time consuming than i expected.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments and kudos are well appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. I very much appreciate it. Next chapter will be Jon Snow.


	44. Jon Snow IV

Jon sat alone, staring at the flickering of the hearth before him.

The great hall was aloud with the sounds of celebration and feasting. The air was hazy with smoke and heavy with the delicious smells of roasted meat and baked bread, fish and sour wine. The cold stone walls were draped with black banners with a white sunburst. _The Sun of Winter_ , their house’s words were, but winter's days were getting evermore shorter. Near another hearth, a wildling was singing a ballad, though his voice couldn’t carry across the hall. No matter how increasingly loudly he sang, it couldn’t go above the drunken shouts of the feasting men who downed the finest meads and ales from the deepest cellars.

The feast had been going on for a few hours and didn’t seem to be stopping any time soon. Though in summer the feasts like that of the king’s arrival were much more extravagant, with pork and sow crusted in a collection of herbs and heavy coatings of honey and an assortment of rich flavouring. Instead there was old horse and chickens and boiled mushy grain, bowls of beef-and-barley strew, mushrooms and mutton chops, pies chucky with cutup carrots, onion broth and the last of the fruit all thrown into a sweet bowl. Of fish, there was plenty. Salt and seaweed, casts of fish brought in from the coast, whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There may have been more variety then Jon expected, but that didn’t mean there was a lot to go around. Most had a few fish, some sausages and a chunk of dark bread. Regardless of that, everyone ate like it was the grandest feast – and likely was for many of them. They sang drunkenly, they shouted and a couple got into a fight over who could sit closest to the fire. Alys Thenn dealt with that and threw the perpetrators into the cell to sober up.

The lady of the castle sat in the lord’s seat, and beside her was Sigorn of House Thenn. Like always, her husband wore his bronze scales and had a bronze sword at his side, but he’d taken a newly made white surcoat with the bronze disk surrounded by red flames. From a distance, he could almost look a northern lord.

The journey south to Karhold was hard and long but they eventually made it to the castle and its surrounding village. The few men who formed the garrison had quickly bared the gates and prepared for a siege. The wildlings and few crows were in no position to try and besiege any castle. It ended when Lady Alys approached and stated their intension. The front gates opened shortly after and the steward greeted her. After a tense conversation, the wildlings were allowed inside, if under stern watch. No one trusted the free folk but under orders of the acting lady, they couldn’t refuse either. Only a handful got permission to lay inside the keep, which included all those of the Night’s Watch. The wildlings, meanwhile, needed to sleep outside the walls. They huddled where it was less exposed beneath the two rocky outcrops the castle was built atop of with its drawbridge separating them. It was small castle, but his lord father said it was strong and looked as much.

“You’ve been spending a long time staring at the fire, kneeler,” one wildling woman called over to him. Jon looked over to the words directed at him. She was homely, with a heavy nose, watery eyes and a weather-scarred face. There she sat beside Tormund and Val who laughed at some jests. “Over here. You’re blocking that fire for the rest of us.” Jon looked over at Ghost gnawing at a bone in unsettling silence after having fought a bitch away. He brushed the creature’s thick fur and retreated from his seat to the bench with the rest of them.  

“Finally decided to come and sit with us,” spoke another with a squashed face, heavy brow and a voice slurred by wine. The free folk all had big appetites but that couldn’t compare to the volume they drank.

Tormund especially. He was sitting beside Val and was like a keg. He couldn’t get enough. Jon Snow understood why he was called the Mead King of Ruddy Hall. “A single demand and you come running.” He laughed a throaty laugh. “It must be in your blood.”

“You do bend your knees fast, kneeler. I’m surprised they aren't broken,” Val chuckled as she sat opposite him. Her face was flushed and the blow of the hearth made her hair look like beaten gold. “How much I miss warm food not half eaten by an oversized wolf.” She gave a not so subtle glance at Ghost who laid atop a bear skin rug.

Tormund laughed and slapped her hard on the back. “I’m sure that wolf saved our skin more than once, I’ll say. Blessed alright. Though those eyes don’t escape the mind. Look at them once and you can’t forget.”

“Tis true,” Jon said, impaling a roasted onion soaked in thick gravy with his knife from a nearby trencher and took a large bit. It crunched and tasted better than the best of dishes.

Tormund took a pause to gulp down his drink after being filled by a serving girl. “What drink is this?” he asked, looking deep inside.

“Wine I’m sure,” was Jon’s response. “Or ale . . . or mead. Perhaps watered, though unlikely.” It was hard with not taking a sample. Tormund handed Jon the cup, the bastard of Winterfell took a small sip and felt the sweetness on his tongue. “Summerwine.” It brought back memories of earlier days. Easier days. It was the tastes and smells he could remember best.

“Tastes like summer,” the man laughed. “I never thought I would taste it. But you southerners are soft and need a proper drink. The kind to put hair on your chest and give you a beard like a proper man. Har!”

Jon felt the hairs on his chin. He had Satin trim it after being brought back and left it alone as he travelled. Going through a snow storm wasn’t the best time for a shave. Not that he needed it. It didn’t seem to grow much, if at all. “I’m not from the south, nor am I southerner.”

“You lived south the Wall, Lord Crow,” said Val. “Therefor you and your merry band of kneelers are all southerners in our eyes. All soft and pampered.”

“Mayhaps those south of the Neck,” he retorted before noticing they all looked at him in silence. They didn’t know what he said. The conversation reminded Jon of Theon Greyjoy; the traitor that had been House Stark’s ward, killing those who used to house him. Theon and Robb would usually get into fights on who was tougher, the Ironborn or the Northerners. One story was of Cragon the Swimmer, an Ironborn king who had challenged a rival for the right to marry his daughter and agreed he could if he could beat the rival king’s heir in a swimming race. After a solid week of swimming the ocean in full armour and being slightly slowed down by seven sea dragons he killed on the way, Cragon the Swimmer got what he wanted. Theon never ceased to say that like it was fact. “Me and my people may not have been born north of the Wall, but we are as tough as they come.” He bit into the onion once more and ordered a serving girl to fill his drink. 

“Mayhaps,” agreed Val with a slight smile. “You’ve certainly impressed me. I will confess that I’m surprised how big these castles of yours are. This is by far the largest I’ve seen—”

“And is still dwarfed by Winterfell. My family's home put’s this one to shame.” The great hall itself was at least thrice the size and with many more hearths. In truth, they weren’t needed when he left. The castle was warmed up by heated water that ran through the walls. He missed that more than ever. _The most important location in the north and being fought over by all factions_. Stannis would be there and would need to listen to his plight. He had to. _If Melisandre words are heeded he may turn back north and help the Watch as he did before . . ._

Tormund laughed at a joke and turned to him, wine running down his cracked lips. “Then I’ll like to see it. Bigger the better they say.” The wildling took another gulp and emptied the cup after only two mouthfuls.

“You’ll like to think,” Val mused aloud with a wicked grin. “How long have you been away from this Winterfell? The home you claimed to have.”

_My home is at the Wall. I made a vow_. “Too long,” Jon replied instead. “I miss it greatly.” He turned to the dais. “Mind if you all excuse me?” He didn’t leave them the chance to respond before proceeding to the high table where Alys and the top Thenns sat and feasted. “My lady.”

Alys turned to him, a smile forming. The acting lady of Karhold was dressed in a sober dress of rough wool. It was modest and the only jewellery she wore was a bronze torc her husband had given her. Sitting on the other side of her was Lady Alysane Mormont. She wore ringmail underneath boiled leather and a surcoat of House Mormont. The Lady of Bear Island was drinking from a mead horn in a similar way to Tormund.

_Tormund did say he bedded a bear . . ._ Jon had seen the way the Giantsbane looked at her.

“Jon Snow,” Alys Thenn said respectfully. “An honour it is to see you. Forgive me. There wasn’t any room on the table . . . my husband has many chieftains.”

“No offense given. It’s an honour to see you, my lady. I hope you are enjoying the festivities?” He glanced at Sigorn who was busy talking to one of the nobles of his tribe in their own tongue. Besides a few glances, they paid him no attention. “My lady . . . this may not be the time but I’ll like to talk. In private if possible.”

She nodded and turned to her husband, interrupting the conversation. After some soft words, the Magnar nodded. Alys stood up, brushed down her dress and they walked through the halls and to her solar where a serving girl was quick to set alight the wood in the hearth. “Can’t be cold while we talk, can we?” She smiled and sat on the table, hands resting on her lap. “What is it you require?”

“A few things, my lady. Remember when we made the deal . . .”

“Of course, Jon. I can remember, I’m not an old woman. I’ll provide the Watch with men just as I promised. Though I stress that I can’t offer much in the way of food. Karhold can barely afford the number already down in the great hall. I . . . I can’t think how we’ll survive the winter . . .” she seemed distracted before looking back at him, straightening herself. “Those that I send won’t be fighting age men. They won’t be warriors, but I’ll offer you what men we have. Craftsmen and the like. Not all will take the black, but they’ll offer services to the Watch.”

He didn’t need them to take the black nor say any oaths, he just needed their swords and skills. “They will be given food and lodging. That much I can offer.” _As long as the Braavosi do their part of the bargain . . . but how am I going to pay for it?_ The Gift really didn’t have much in it besides lumber that the Iron Bank was going to have shipped to the Free City where wood was said to be expensive. He also made other concessions, ones that made him feel both cheated and bitter. Even with those, Jon doubted he could pay for all of it.

“It’ll take time, I hope you understand. Just leave some of your men here and I’ll see them sheltered and fed. I understand you say time is important, but the more time we have to call up people from the surrounding villages, the more go up north and can deal with the Others.”

Jon bowed his head in thanks. “Thank you, my lady. I can’t stress that enough. Mind if I ask if I ask where I can find a ship?” Karhold was near the coast and he could sense that it would more than likely have a port.

“The nearby village of Karport is among this lordships main docks. It’s mostly fishing but you may find a ship to take you to White Harbour. Trade has shriveled up since the war began.”

“Thank you. I plan to take a ship and sail up the White Knife to Winterfell.” That was their quickest way and it would avoid them crossing Bolton territory. Jon didn’t know if the Boltons had any forces left there or if they’ll all be in Winterfell. He didn’t know for certain and couldn’t risk being put into an ambush and be destroyed. “You have my thanks, Lady Alys. May if I ask where the maester is?”

“In the raven tower. I’ll have a servant show you. You’ll find him in there tending the birds.”

A servant was found in the hall and led him to a small circular room at the top of the tallest tower. It only had a few ravens within small cages and reeked. The maester was asleep on a straw bed. He was a small man with a large nose, warty skin and pale-grey eyes. Jon woke him up with a prod of his boot. The man woke up, ran a winkled hand through his thin brown-hair and looked at the black clad man before him. “I need you to write some messages.”

“I only work on behalf of the master—”

“She’s aware of what I need to do.” _Other houses need to know_. Jon needed to send word back to Eastwatch. No matter how many ravens there were, it wouldn't be enough. Many ravens go awry or be shot down by desperate people. Words may simply go unheeded. “I need you to write to all the lords in the North.”

“Who . . . who are you?” the old man asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Jon Snow of Winterfell. Son of the late lord Eddard Stark.”

“Jon Snow . . . I thought you were Lord Commander.”

“I was,” Jon couldn’t deny that. “I was forced to step down after some convincing.” _And a few knives to the chest_. “They’ve got a new one and I’m just a wandering crow. We need more men and you’re going to help me.”

“Yet you bring Wildlings.” His tone was accusing, and his eyes narrowed.

Jon knew many northerners now hated him. Once, they treated him warmly, called him Lord Ned’s son, but now they looked at him with guarded looks and tightened lips. To them, he was a traitor for letting wildlings through the Wall and down south. They saw him as letting in rapists and bands of marauders to attack and pillage. They didn’t understand nor did they want to. Those just south of the Gift had hardened their hearts to those dwelling above and would only care once the Others and wights was pounding on their doors.

“I did. Many of my brothers were less than willing to look after them, so I brought them here. The more they move, the less trouble they’ll cause.” _A worthy escort should I encounter any problems_. “I hope their presence don’t hinder your ability to write?” _If it does . . . well, you will or I will_. He was getting those messages out regardless of the maester’s opinions. His hands casually brushed the handle of Longclaw, should the maester need some extra persuasion.

“They shan’t,” the words were tight and the maester sat atop a stool, rolled out a parchment, dipped his quill in ink and turned Jon Snow’s words to paper. Cerwyn, Flint, Ryswell, Mormont, Manderly and Reed to name a few were to receive ravens. When it was done, the stars were out and there was a massive pile ready to be sent.

Not trusting the man to do it unsupervised, Jon watched. Instead of the Karhold maester, he would have preferred it to be Sam to tend the ravens himself. _He needed to go to Oldtown. We need a maester_. Jon wondered if he reached his destination, and Aemon to. That wasn't to mention Mance’s son. Remembering Gilly, Jon felt no remorse for his threat. He did what was needed to be done. He’ll continue to do what he needed to do.

After that was done, Jon headed to a chamber within the heart of the keep and knocked on the door. He heard a voice on the other side and opened it up. It was warm inside. Melisandre’s chambers were small and sparse but there was a roaring hearth and the air smelled strongly of spices.

“Lord Snow,” the witch said deeply with an eastern accent. She sat beside the fire with her eyes closed. The ruby around her neck seemed to pulse in a similar manner as the one Mance wore. She turned to him and opened her eyes. “I’m assuming you desire more lessons?”

Jon nodded. After her offer, after everything that’d happened, he asked her aid to control his so-called gifts. Mance Rayder used skinchangers in that army of his. Val and the others encouraged him to do so.

The red witch nodded and let Jon sit down opposite her. More than once she told him to limit his thoughts and focus his mind, to ignore everything but Ghost. It was hard and more than once she told him to cover his eyes with a blindfold so the world was dark. “Are you improving?”

“I’m getting more of it,” he admitted. “Once more I was Ghost. I could see through his eyes and smell what he smelled. But I couldn’t control him though. I could only follow.”

Melisandre nodded in understanding. “Skinchanging. In Asshai and the Shadowlands we call it by other names but it works the same way. Many aren’t born with the power, Jon Snow. It comes to others by blood rituals. You have a gift.”

He never asked to be and would have denied its use if he could afford to. _If the gods or whatever give me something that can benefit us in this war, we need to take it_. With the weather just getting worse, scouting from the air or Ghost would be much better. Jon felt the scars near his eye from where the bird had attacked him during the ranging. “I need to control him.”

“Magic is said to be a sword without a hilt, Jon Snow. There is no safe way to grasp it. Magic is an art that takes time to learn and one that cannot be rushed.”

He heard that saying before. “But it needs to be done and I can’t wait.” _I can’t wait when the matter of Westeros is at stake. The North will fall if I take too long_. Those south of the Neck . . . they played their wars, fighting over their precious Iron Throne. He was fighting the real war. The only one that truly mattered. 

“Then you'll become what you desire to control. If you aren’t careful, you’ll become the wolf.”

Jon dismissed her words. He needed to regardless of her warnings. Time wasn’t something he had. Not anymore. “I’ll think about it,” Jon lied, averting his gaze to look at the fire she was sitting beside. “Have you seen anything else, my lady?” The question was spoken skeptically. He didn’t trust her that much. Their relationship was out of necessity. He wouldn’t be speaking with her if it wasn’t.

“I have,” the tall woman answered, looking concerned. “I wanted to speak to you about it. The cold winds are rising, Jon Snow. The old powers are awakening once more. Before they were hunting. Now they come.”

“The Others.”

She nodded. “I saw them in the flames just became you came in. They march towards Eastwatch, an innumerable horde. The giants, the wildlings . . . none of them made it. Now they’re going to march against the Wall itself. I can feel it. When I saw them . . . I heard voices not spoken through human lips. I heard them speak.”

_They can’t match against the Wall_ , Jon thought. The Wall was long and thick and tall, with artillery and archers as well as magic built into the foundations. Jon had ordered all the entrances sealed up beside a few, but he wagered those would be packed with rock and ice soon enough. Nothing should be able to go through, but it concerned him all the same.  _So things are finally moving forward then_. It just made him more anxious to continue.

The air was cold on his face as Jon Snow walked the battlements, looking out at the woods that had grown close to the walls. Inside was game like elk, hare and rabbits not to mention smaller wolves that were regularly hunted for their pelts. The tall sentinels circled the castle. Each trunk was armoured in grey bark and the canopy above them had lost their leaves, leaving sharp branches coating the snow in shadows. The air was like ice and flakes of snow began to fall once more. There were muffled sounds of the feast through the thick walls of the keep. Outside only a handful Karstark men guarded the walls, all huddled near the braziers and under shelter. None of them looked like soldiers, but old men and green boys. One looked barely older then himself when he first joined the Nights Watch, with a pink beardless face and a helm that was too big for him.

Walking along, his mole-skinned gloves brushed against the freshly layered snow. Jon breathed in the cold air. It was clean, refreshing compared to the stuffy, chaotic hall. The air was chilly, smelling of pine and bark, stables and moss. Jon looked up at the sky. It was black and moonless and clear. When he was a boy, Maester Luwin taught him the stars at his time in Winterfell. The houses of the heavens and the rulers of each. The seven wanderers sacred to the Faith of the Seven. There was the Sword of the Morning, the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat and the Moonmaid. The free folk looked up at the same stars, but they carried different names to them. The King’s Crown was the Cradle, the red wanderer that was sacred to the Smith was instead the Thief, the Stallion was the Horned Lord. Jon Snow felt a familiar feeling looking up, thinking about a certain girl.

He shook his head. That was a long time ago. It had to be. His mind was growing fuzzy looking at certain points. It was strange. Some days he could remember clearly like it was just yesterday, but others were being dragged away from him, becoming hazy and clouded.

Sighing, Jon glanced at a guard who was warming his hands, breathing pale puffs into his gloved palms. Noticing his gaze, the guard turned to him. He was an old man, with grey whiskers, sunken in eyes and a hairy bulbous nose. “You’re him . . . aren’t you? You’re Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard.”

“The one and only,” Jon mused, approaching the fire and warming himself. It felt good to stand beside the flames. “Mind if I ask who you are?”

“Jonos, milord.”

“I am no lord.” Once more, Jon Snow gazed at the tall trees surrounding Karhold. He had a strange feeling something was watching him.

“Indeed. I’m guessing you never faced a winter like this, southerner.” There wasn’t an edge to his voice, as others had. It was stated more matter-of-factly.

“I’m not from the south.”

“You were Winterfell. Their more southern. I doubt you were born there, but below the Neck. There for you are southern despite the Stark blood.” He shook his head. “Not that it matters.”

_I’m more northern then you know_. “It doesn’t.” This time, Jon’s voice had an edge and he saw the man shrink. He wasn’t a strong man, unlikely to hold himself if the wildlings fought. A levy, most likely. “Your right. This winter is bad, that is plain to see.”

The guard with the ill-fitting helmet nodded. “Smallfolk are travelling to the coast. There is little left for them in the fields. At the coast they can at least fish throughout the winter. The war has done bad things for the crops . . .”

_But what about the Ironborn and pirates?_ That was what usually happened. The smallfolk move to the coasts and then left in the open to Ironborn and Essosi pirates who’d enslave them. That was what happened to the wildlings at Hardhome before the Others got to them.

It was later when Jon returned to the great hall. The layer of snow on his black coat and fur had melted, running down and forming puddles beneath his boots. A few turned to him but more were too busy having fun and celebrating. It looked like for one day, everyone forgot that they were northmen or wildlings and instead friends. _They’ll remember who they are soon enough when their wits return to them_. Many were drunk and others were laying face down in puddles of mead. Jon couldn’t help but be amused at the sight. He turned to Tormund who was still feasting and he wore heavy mail underneath his wool. Now, their armour were among the most valuable things they carried on their person. Wildlings followed no laws saying they couldn’t take it from someone else, so they carried everything and protected it religiously.

Returning to his companions, Val stepped in front, her face flushed with wine. “Lord Snow,” her voice sang above the sound of the feast. It was obvious she was drunk. “You know, Lord Crow, this wine may be sweet, but it’s stronger than I expected.” She paused, looking ready to throw up for a brief moment then smiling at him. “You are the last male of your line. If you have too much to drink and stumble into my room, I may have to defend myself. I cut your balls off and your line of Stark will be extinct.”

_I’m not a Stark. I’m a Snow_. Though Jon wagered others thought that could change if it benefits them. Stannis certainly thought so. _A Stark is needed in the North . . ._  Jon supposed, once, he would have jumped at such an opportunity. He had dreamed at sitting at his lord father’s seat, issuing decrees and being a ruler. He had dreamed of marriage and having his own family. Sometimes it was dreams of him being the only son of his lord father, other times Jon had nightmares of doing things he should never dream of. Jon shook the thought out his mind _. I have no right to sit while a Stark still breathes_. He heard no news of Sansa. Whether she was dead or just missing, he didn’t know. But until it was certain, she was the rightful lady of Winterfell.

“Be mindful of what you say, Val,” Tormund grinned just above the lips of his cup. “He’s proven himself tougher than most.”

“Let’s hope,” Val mused, cocking her head. She almost looked seductive, until her hiccupping destroyed that pleasant image. It caused the table to laugh and a red-faced wildling princess returned to her seat rather clumsily. 

Despite himself, Jon showed a short lived smile and sat back down with them where they laughed, japed and talked, avoiding discussion of the wall, the Others or their possible future. It wasn’t the time to talk about dark things but to embrace the moment. To enjoy what they had now. Musicians played bravely and well, Owen the Oath took up the fiddle while others did likewise with horns and harps. The hall was awash with singing and the howls of laughter, the clashing of cup and plate, the snarling of hounds fighting underneath the tables for anything that fell on the floor. A gaunt-faced boy stood atop the table and started singing at the top of his lungs, hopping from one foot to the other as those around cheered him on. One of the songs, Jon heard was “The Night That Ended.” A ballad about the Night’s Watch going to meet the Others in the battle of the Dawn. Jon looked at the singer, who honestly was a wildling, and was honestly surprised by that choice. 

As Jon was listening to Tormund and Soren Shieldbreaker argue while simultaneously jesting about something that happened north the wall, Val grabbed him by the shoulder and – with surprising strength – lifted Jon to his feet. “I’m bored of standing,” she slurred, a flush of red across her fair features. “I want to dance. I can’t remember when the last time I danced . . . you can join with me, Lord Crow, unless your legs are made of ice.”

“They are stiff,” he allowed, letting Val press her weight against him.

“Then let me unstiffen them,” the wildling laughed, obviously having been waiting for his words. Without wasting a moment, she dragged him to the others in the centre of the hall. “Do you dance much?” Val asked sweetly, her breath warm against his ear.

“At every feast since returning,” was his dry response. “Not like I had any choice in the matter.”

She smiled at that, though Val looked somewhat shy as . . . well, as shy as Val could possibly be. “Everyone has a choice. Just a matter of going through with it.” She was probably correct at that. He didn’t say much else and they just danced slowly in the centre. Jon didn’t really trust her not to collapse, Val's drinking competitions with Tormund lasted a fair bit. The wildling's eyes were bright and her lips formed a smirk. “For such a graceful swordsman, dancing you move like a log,” she jested, moving away and doing a graceful spin, or would have been if not for looking to trip over her own legs when she turned back to him.

Jon caught her and she laughed. “I confess I’m not the best dancer. My sister tried to teach me . . . but I failed.”

“Or she failed at teaching you.” The blonde-haired woman took hold of him with a strong grip. “Then let me teach you how one truly dances.” She hauled him towards the other dancers, shoving others who stared and laughed. All the while Jon mumbled apologies. “Follow my lead, Snow.” He did. Val wasn’t the best teacher, nor was she patient. Both moved around the great hall rather clumsily no thanks to the wine. “You're a terrible dancer,” she pouted when the song ended.

“I gave you ample warning. It was your fault for trying to teach me.”

She chuckled, brushing a stubborn strand of hair that became displaced during their little so-called dance. “And I refused to heed it.” She looked over at the table. “Maybe a few more cups will make you loosen up?” She looked hopeful.

“I’m afraid that can’t be the case, my lady. A few more cups will make me loss my ability to stand.” That was a lie. Jon would rather keep his wits about him. He couldn’t afford losing them, not for a moment.

“Then at least you can do is watch me and provide some halfway decent conversation. Come.”

They stayed even after most of the castle and wildlings retired. Val didn’t drink as much as he thought and instead they talked beside the hearth, Ghost laying between them and enjoying the last of warmth coming from the dying embers. When Jon Snow brushed the sleeping direwolf, Val smiled at him, playing with her empty cup. She glanced at the mostly empty hall, the only others were servants cleaning up the mess and others passed out on the tables and floor. She leaned back on the chair and yawned. When he looked at her, she grinned. “Let’s call it a night.”

Jon agreed, standing up and offering her his arm. She looked at him quizzing. “Let me escort you to your room at least.”

She pouted her lips which did make her look slightly childish, but at the same time he thought it was sweet. “I can walk myself.”

“You certainly can, but I want to do this.” She cocked her head and accepted his offer, pulling herself up and stopped to smooth out the green dress. It was the kind that servants wore but that didn’t make her any less comely. What was said? _A nubile girl, not hard to look upon. Good hips, good breasts, well made for whelping children_. But there was more than just that. Much more. Val had proven herself an excellent tracker, a skilled hunter, a worthy diplomat and intermediary between himself and the more delicate parts of wildling society. She was a step above many seasoned rangers of the Watch and despite not truly carrying the title, many called her the Wildling Princess. A title now borne more out of respect than blood.

They climbed up the tower where Val had been given residence. It was a simple room. There was a small bed in the corner, a carpet made of bear fur and the exposed stone was covered with fresh rushes. There was a draw and hanging from the exposed stone wall was a Karstark banner. A humble room, but still better than Val’s tower in Castle Black. _A tower for a princess . . ._

She pried from his hold and her blue-grey eyes scanning the room. “We had a feast, now we’re both alone in a room.” She chuckled and stepped closer to him. “All alone.”

Val span to him and Jon once more saw how beautiful she was. Compared to the thick furs and leathers she normally wore, her dress did more to show off her willowy body, the curves of her frame and the fullness of her chest. Her cheekbones were sharp and defined, her hair long and braided. Then there were her lips. His eyes stared at them. Maybe it was the wine clouding his mind, but he was memorised by the sight. How soft and alluring they looked. Jon wondered how nice they would be to kiss . . .

“I can’t,” Jon Snow said, averting his gaze. “My oath . . . I spoke the vows—”

“Fuck your vows. I’m sure you broke them again and again when you laid with Ygritte. You died and came back so what so those vows matter now? Even so, what’s to stop you? Only a handful of your crows are with us and they’ll return with the new ones. I doubt they care. I saw the way they were looking at the women.” She took his chin and turned it to face her. Her hands were warm if somewhat callus, and she smelled of pine needles and the sweetness of honey but also wine. She leaned forward, her eyes staring directly into his. “Let me tell you something. They don’t matter. I know you swore them before a tree, but the Old Gods don’t care such things.” She drew in closer, a hand grasping his and her lips a hairs width away. “But I care about you.”

If she was trying to seduce him, she was doing a good job. His body grew eager at the suggestion. _No . . . I made an oath . . ._ But did oaths matter now? If he was still bound by them, did it truly matter if he broke them? Jon broke them before. He had laid with a woman when he shouldn’t have. That was different though, he needed to pretend to be a deserter. Jon didn’t need to now. _I could just leave and go. Leave her here and retain my honour_.

Instead, he cupped her cheek, feeling the smoothness of her skin, enjoying it against his fingers. She snorted, shaking her head ever-so-slightly but pressing into his palm. “You’re nothing more than a maiden boy are you? It's like you're seeing a woman for the first time.”

“Never one this beautiful,” Jon said, pressing forward and soon his lips were against hers. An arm wrapped around his neck, drawing him in. His hands explored her form, her thighs and breasts, her arms and rear. His manhood stiffened when it rubbed against her mound. Only clothes separated the both of them.

When her hand brushed against his chest, a sharp pain shot through his chest. Jon pulled away with a gasp. His brows furrowed.

Val looked at him for a moment, confused. Then came the realisation. Her face went red and it spread to her ears. “Sorry . . . I was caught up in the moment. I’ll be gentler.”

The wounds still hurt on occasion, though he would forget about them until something even gracefully brushed against it. The knives didn’t go in as deep as they could have, Val had told him, but they wouldn't properly heal nor truly scar. _Therefor they’ll never fade_. They’ll be there to remind him of what happened for the rest of his days. “I don’t care.” Soon, he was pushing Val towards the bed, her fingers fumbling to remove his laces, tongue deep in his mouth. Soon they were on the bed, free of clothes except a loose linen tunic he kept on. Despite Val being the one to stitch him up, Jon Snow didn’t want to disturb her with the sight. Regardless of that, her hands slipped underneath the tunic, brushing against his sides and back, careful not to touch his injuries.

Slowly he edged downward, kissing down her neck to her breasts, taking each of her nipples in his mouth before moving to her mound. Her legs were slim but muscular, the hair between her legs were pale. She had been right, there was less hair before than on the queen’s lips. Jon pressed down to kiss her there and Val spread her legs a little where he could see the pink inside. She was wet, sopping wet, when he kissed her. Val jolted initially, but strong hands grasped his hair and pulled him deeper. His probing started slowly at first, but grew stronger and faster. Soon, she was rocking against his face, gasping all the while.

Afterwards, when Jon pulled back and wiped his chin, Val was relaxed, her breasts heaving with every breath she took. “Ygritte wasn’t lying about that tongue,” Val mused airily.

“Told you?” In truth, Jon wasn’t in the mood to really care. He was too invested in the sight before him.

“She has quite the mouth and it spread.”

_That would explain some things_ , he mused before pushing the thought out out his mind.

She looked up to him and smiled. It was different from the ones she usually sent his way. This one invited him forward and Jon accepted eagerly. Once more, they kissed. She bit his neck and he nuzzled hers, whispering words into his ear as she guided him inside her. Val was certainly no maiden, despite her tightness. Jon Snow always knew that was the case. None of it mattered to him though. All that mattered to him was that moment and what they were doing. Nothing else outside the stone walls concerned him. _There once was a maiden as fair as winter, with moonglow in her hair . . ._ What he cared about was her heat, what their mouths were doing to each other, his fingers pinching her nipples and taking her harder and faster.

“Yes, Lord Crow. Take me. Harder. _Harder_. Right there, _yesss_ , Jon.” She screamed, oh did she scream. Her passage tightened around his cock and Jon buried his face into hair when he reached his peak.

Their joining had been sweet, regardless of what others thought. When they were done and he felt himself soften, Val rolled to the side from where she’d somehow managed to get on top. Her hair was messy, all tangles and curls. “I’m actually quite glad I stole you.”

“You stole me?” Jon didn’t understand.

She laughed. “Aye. It was bound to happen and you didn’t seem to be against it.” She was grinning. “I did threaten to steal your wolf for myself, after all. A wolf for a guardian. What woman wouldn’t want that?”

“A few, I’m sure. You just got to him first . . .” his voice trailed off and grew serious. “You said you cared about me . . . mind if I ask why?” It was more out of curiosity than anything.

Val shrugged nonchalantly and shifted her weight on the mattress. “What can I say? You are perhaps the only Crow that actually cared about me or my people. You helped us, saved us when you could have easily just shut your gates and left us to die where we’ll starve and be hunted down. You fought against us, just as we fought against you. That doesn’t exactly breathe trust, does it? No, unlike the others, you saw the dangers and went against those oaths of yours to aid us, even at the cost of your own life.” She rolled over on her side and looked at him. “I can respect that, Jon. That’s why I care . . . and if you can warm my bed, all the better.”

Jon let out a chuckle. He didn’t say a word though and kissed her again, this time more tenderly. They did it thrice more that night. The third time he spent his seed, Jon was spent and both were gasping for breath. _Like a pair of rutting dogs in heat_ , he thought. The bed was narrow and didn’t give them much space. I didn't matter though. She was warm and soft, a pleasure to hold. Glancing over, Val was already fast asleep. Wrapping his arms around her, Jon closed his eyes and pretty soon, he was to.

As the pale moon lit the sky, the white wolf raced through the dark wood. There was the taste of blood on his tongue while the scent of death filled his nostrils. The air smelled of the pine of the trees and the salt of the sea. Around the wolf rustled the bushes and occasionally the forest echoed was the sound of an owl’s hoot. They ignored the white wolf prowling, who made not a sound besides the soft crushing of freshly covered snow.

Breaking out into a run, the wolf leaped over a collapsed three and broke through a thick bush of horns where he saw the coast. The waves were as black as ink and thrashed against the battered shoreline. The beach was grey sand and smoothed pebbles. The scent grew, becoming overbearing. Even though the white fur was thick and shaggy, the icy wind blew through. Not even the thickest coat could keep the chill out. The wolf stopped on occasion, once to pick up his ears at a sound in the distance and once to sniff at a wandering crab that flexed its claws while walking sideways.

A ship had crashed upon the shore, the black sail torn and barnacles decorated its equally dark hull. Fully black it stood out in the night, a black silhouette against a backdrop of dark blues and greys. Padding cautiously up to the ship, the wolf sniffed and explored the massive hole in the side. Shards of wood were scattered around the beach, like something had blew its way out. Inside, the interior looked like it was victim to a fight. Though the vessel was deserted, it carried a familiar smell that was found north of the wall. Finding nothing there, the wolf leaped out the hole and headed towards the village nearby, perched upon some shallow cliffs of dull-grey stone with sharp jagged rocks jutting up from the thrashing sea. The settlement was abandoned, the doors had been broken down and the interiors had been ravaged. Nothing looked to have been stolen and there were no corpses on the ground. The scent of blood lingered though.

Slinking out a house, the white wolf stopped, ears perking up and he looked towards the trees where it stood.

The form was tall and lean, a pale shadow elegantly poised in the darkness. It stood unmoving, staring at the wolf with eyes as bright as blue stars. Then its lips formed a thin smile and out came a laugh like the gentle crackling of ice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as the previous Jon chapter had them going through a snowstorm and the previous chapter had the Targaryens fighting through the equivalent of a firestorm, I decided for a more light-hearted chapter where Jon finally gets some. Also an Other. I hope this chapter didn't fail to please. Tell me what you think. 
> 
> I’m going to take a break after this. I don’t plan on abandoning this fic. I do, however, need to plan out and write the rest of it. I don’t know when I’ll continue though. Maybe it’ll be a few months if I’m feeling particularly ambitious. If you have any suggestions on what you think should happen, tell me. I’ll like to hear it.


	45. The Dragonseed

He stared at the room, trying to imagine the last moments of the Princess of Dorne and the so-called fake Aegon. The piss-water prince, the falseborn, the child sent to die so the true heir could live. The sacrificial lamb to save the trueborn heir.

Just like in the fairy tales.

It remained a royal nursery even after what occurred. Valarr considered that strange and would have changed it to something else for reputation sake. His dark eyes glanced at the wall, the very wall servants had to clean the babe’s blood and brains off of _. Unnecessarily brutal_ , he mused. There was good things that came with brutality, he leaned so against the Dothraki, but sometimes it just wasn’t needed. Sometimes one just had to grab a pillow and smother the babe’s face, or simply throw them down a well or into a river. A quiet way to go and much cleaner. Not to mention it would come with less infamy and therefor the story would spread less for being less gossip worthy, which was exactly what a new regime wanted. But on the other hand, it was Lord Tywin Lannister. History have proven that discretion was important, but so was spreading a message. Lord Tywin did like sending messages . . .

“What do you think it was?” Valarr wondered aloud, glancing at the soldier who followed him. “Elia Martell, the Princess of Dorne, raped and murdered. What do you think was the last thing that went through her mind?”

“I . . . I don’t know, ser.”

Valarr clicked his tongue, trying to imagine the sight, playing it out in his head. A mother who by all accounts wouldn’t leave her children alone and would feed them from her own breast. The sellsword captain looked back at the Dance of the Dragons, where Queen Helaena Targaryen had been forced at knife point to choose one of her sons. The queen offered herself to protect her children, but the butcher and rat-catcher refused and demanded a son, else they would kill both and rape the daughter. The queen named her youngest son, prince Maegor but they killed the other son instead. The circumstances were similar in a way. _Did the Martell try to make a deal?_ Valarr wouldn’t be averse to the idea of the princess making sure her son was safe, even if it meant keeping the daughter there. _Better to protect one than none at all . . ._ But on the other hand, Varys claimed she fought like a lion, striking the massive knight with a candlestick though it did little but make him angry. She was destined to die, but even overpowered she fought on. It did make Valarr feel the slightest bit of respect for her, though not by much, and he supposed he should feel a hint of sympathy towards the woman, but he just wasn’t feeling it. _Would she have fought to protect a babe she knew wasn’t hers?_

“A few things are likely. But I’d wager it was Gregor's fist.” He couldn’t help but chuckle at his own wit.

The mercenary visibly bristled, looking uncomfortable. Strange, fitting his occupation. “It is inappropriate to speak ill of the dead or the late princess, especially in the Red Keep.”

The sellsword captain sighed. “What is she going to do, haunt me? Please. If the Dornishwoman was a ghost, she would have haunted the Baratheon’s out after what they did. Ghosts don’t exist, Maerys. Nor do any other supernatural creatures. They are merely tales for children to scare them into being good.” He glanced at his hand, the bloodied palm with a bandage wrapped around it. There were other creatures though, dark and dangerous. A threat to the civilised peoples of the known world. _Blood for blood, everything has a price_.

“I’m talking about His Grace. You heard what happened with the Kingslayer. He is savage, brutal to those who speak ill of his mother and sister.”

Valarr responded to the words with a cold stare. _Oh, the prince_. There was much to say about the silver-haired boy. The one who idealised one parent and demonised the other. He encountered neither, so Valarr considered it made sense in its own way. The boy did, after all, have many an opportunity to build his own selective memory and world view, despite Lord Jon Connington’s unabashed praise of Prince Rhaegar. “He’ll do nothing, soldier. Fear not for me.” _I own him. I own both Targaryens. They were always meant to be puppets, but they will be solely my puppets when I’m done with them_.

They called themselves dragons, but dragons had riders to control them. If it wasn’t for himself, they wouldn’t have Unsullied. They wouldn’t have attacked Slaver’s Bay, nor would they be able to finance all they desired. Of course, Valarr made a decent penny out of that as well. Slaver’s Bay was to be annexed by a newly imperialised Volantis, with the entire population bound before being thrown into the flesh markets. He got coin for that from the Tigers of the Old Blood as well as more political connections to aid him in any future ambitions. In truth, the whole Slaver’s Bay debacle was just an excuse to destabilise the slave trade. Thanks to Aegon and Daenerys storming Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, leaving three prosperous and rich cities at a state of anarchy provided justification for Volantis to go to war and sweep the region. Everything went to plan, and both Targaryens were stupid enough to agree to it.

The legionary nodded and Valarr took his leave towards the dungeons that were full of the men he had captured the following night after the city was taken. Political prisoners, most of them. Taken by the Lost Legion who stormed the houses of anyone who were unlucky enough not to leave the city when they had the chance. Swift and ruthless was his modus operandi. Few even tried to fight back, but Valarr didn’t care about the Westerosi nor their culture. Those who were highborn were killed like those who were lowborn. It certainly wouldn’t make him friends with the natives, but Valarr wasn’t looking for friends. He wasn’t paid to be their friend. He was, however, looking for allies and he’d already found an important one who wouldn’t be in a position to refuse.

The gaoler opened the door and Valarr walked in with elegant strides. In the corner, atop a bed of soiled straw, was where Qyburn laid. Valarr clicked his tongue, looking at his surroundings. Such a dark dungy room wasn’t going to stimulate one’s intellect. Such a shame. Intellect among the Westerosi was a rarity they constantly destroyed if they could.

The man looked up. Qyburn wasn’t what one would call a suspicious looking man. The opposite really. Despite being thrown in the dungeons, he still looked fatherly, though not in a way Valarr’s own was. Taking out a stool and sitting down, Valarr met the banished maester with a hard stare, willing him to make the first move.

“Who are you?” Qyburn looked Valarr down, his brown eyes looking friendly. A false warmth.

“I am Valarr Vaesari. Captain of the Lost Legion. Acting commander of the Gold Cloaks. Buyer of special talents.” He leaned forward, trying to stop the smirk from showing on his face. “Though others call me the Dragonseed for my family’s relation to House Targaryen.”

That wasn’t a certain thing. The one thing Valarr knew was that he was born on Dragonstone. Whether he truly was the blood of the dragon, with his grandfather truly being Aerys the Mad, was still up in the air. Lie or not, it didn’t matter as long as people believed it. That was the interesting thing in Valarr’s opinion. People acted like truth was a fact, when in reality it was subjective. The Lost Legion certainly thought he was who he said he was. That was how Valarr got where he was. When the Legion was still was exclusive to those of Valyrian descent, it gave him a certain edge against those who put themselves forward. Knives and poison narrowed the competition until they elected him as captain. Then he did the unthinkable in their eyes by opening it up to all. Originally, talent was put below race, but he changed that.

“Dragonseed? Why would you be here? Are you serving on behalf of the crown . . . the Targaryens?”

“Don’t concern yourself with the ambitions of the crown, master Qyburn. I am the only dragon you need to worry about.” Valarr leaned back, his face not giving anything away. “You do have enemies. Quite a few after what you’ve done. You are wanted by the Faith and the Targaryens. You served Cersei Lannister as a spymaster, and created those undead constructs known as the Silent Lions. As well as something we both know of. A certain creature especially. I can offer you a way out. I’m not one to throw away those with particular skillsets, and you have a few.”

“You can get me out, ser?”

“I hold sway with the dragons. I’m currently working on taking control of King’s Landing, including the criminal underworld so the profits go straight to me. A side effect of becoming commander of the Gold Cloaks. I promised to make King’s Landing safe and under order after so much destruction, impossible unless I control all the crime. Those underground connections I’m making as well as the influence I hold with the Targaryens can get you out. In return, I want you, Qyburn. I want you to serve me. Make me what you made Cersei Lannister. I will give you whatever you want and could ever need. Men, women, children, gold and all the supplies to finance your . . . studies.”

The man’s lips formed a tiny smile. “Anything?”

“Within reason. I can give you what the late queen offered and more. But I want results. I’ve seen what you made and it’s certainly impressive. That monster called Ser Robert Strong especially so. I saw what it did, I saw it kill my men like they were nothing. If I have something with even a fraction of that strength, it’s a marked improvement on what I already process. The perfect creatures for a mercenary company. They don’t eat, they don’t cower. They are stronger, more resilient and they don’t demand pay. Also loyal. They’re the perfect slaves in the truest sense of the word. Ones that will do whatever I want.” He smirked. “And you can make them.”

“I can.”  

Valarr stood up. He walked around the room, gloved hands brushing against the rough stone. “Unlike others, I can understand what you want, what you want to achieve. Like myself, I’m sure you know what it’s like to be born above the rest. Born a prodigy in a world that just can’t keep up with us.”

“Few understand us,” Qyburn agreed, as he should. His face was calm. Serene. “I can do what you desire and more. I just ask for a few things in return, and then I’m yours.”

Valarr chuckled and turned to him, smirking. “I’m listening.”

It was that night when the moon was up, that Valarr walked the streets of King’s Landing. Under his command, and with the coming coronation proclaiming Aegon and his lovely wife Daenerys as King and Queen of Westeros, King’s Landing was under a state of martial law.

After a week of continuous hard work, much of the rubble and streets had been cleared. There was plenty of ruined buildings left and many would have been left homeless if they weren’t charitably given tents or hastily built shacks. The septs in the city were full of those whose homes burnt down, while others found a temporary home within manors of dead nobility or the Red Keep itself.

The whole clean up and the chaos of having more than half the city be set alight gave Valarr the perfect opportunity to clean up the city without anyone knowing. His men had been involved in night-time operations of rounding up anyone who could be a threat to the new regime. Many had gone under the Targaryen’s noses. The two young dragons spent their time trying to earn the hearts of the city, so they didn’t really need to know that a few denizens went missing. Why would they? Varys was very specific with those targets.

But of the Targaryens themselves?

Valarr couldn’t respect them. Not in the slightest. They never achieved anything for themselves. Everything was handed to them. Valarr, meanwhile, fought to eat and survive, using threats and manipulation and killing to get where he was now. Instead, the Targaryens, because of their blood, were given all they could ever need or want. Their armies, their dragons in the forms of eggs, their followers and titles. Everything was done for them behind closed curtains where the shadows paved the way. Valarr was one of those shadows, cleaning up any mess they made in order to be presentable to the general population. After all, they couldn’t be seen to do wrong, at least in comparison to their rivals. Much had been done to ensure that was the case. Aegon was arrogant and hasty, but that somehow worked in his favour. It give him an aura of being a proper Targaryen. Proud, haughty and self-important, he fit the image of a Targaryen prince perfectly. The people loved him. How could they not? He was young, pretty, charming. A warrior who fought on the back of a dragon and sneaked into the Red Keep, he won battles and glory. He was the perfect young king in the eyes of the Westerosi. Even had the conqueror’s sword and bloody crown to go along with that image. In a way, Aegon was nothing but a character designed to fit an intended role. Valarr could respect Aegon if it was intentional from his end. It wasn’t though. Instead it was Varys Master of Whispers and Illyrio who made him. Raising him to be the good lost royal heir to take back his throne at the head of an army of fellow exiles. The sword, the dragon and even the pretty princess he would take to wife. He had all of it built into his life to embed itself in the collective imagination of Westeros. After all, people liked simplicity. People liked hope. They loved what they could understand. A fairy tale come to life, to save them from their misery and stitch the wounds of bleeding Westeros.

Valarr snorted at that.

People may call Prince Aegon the rightful king. They may call him the conqueror come again, a hero to bring back Westeros from the brink. But in true, Aegon Targaryen was little more than a boy playing at those things. War was different from ruling. It was in the Red Keep, behind closed doors, where the first true sense of leadership awaited the both of them. Kingship wouldn’t care about any of that. The Iron Throne wouldn’t care for surface appeal. It would simply cut them both with rusted blades.

Soon enough, Valarr reached his destination. It was a burnt out building that was still yet to be torn down. Outside were his men. Trusted men, the lot of them, loyal only to him. They stood with swords and crossbows at the ready, archers standing atop the roofs and ready to shot anyone who’d show up unwanted.

“Are they inside?” the captain asked one of them. The words spoken were High Valyrian.

The man put a clenched fist to his chest and bowed his head. “Yes, commander,” the words spoken in the same tongue. “They wait inside, all ready for your command.”

Valarr nodded and one man opened the door for him. The area was dim despite the candles set out. Five men waited for him, slumping against the walls, siting on burnt seats or simply standing. All were heads of organised crime families. Much of the crime was in their control, somewhat. They formed projection rackets throughout King’s Landing, smuggled goods, thieved, bribed gold cloaks and killed. These were the people one should know should one desire true control of the city.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked the lot of them, throwing his cloak back.

“Acting commander under the dragons,” a large man with an egg-shaped head spat. He was a homely fellow, with a broken nose and heavy brows. His head was bald and his skin deathly pale. “What do you want? A bribe? I’ll give you a bribe. Seven knows that the siege you and your masters gave me enough money selling food.” He laughed, a horrid sound like a saw grinding on wood. “Ladies of high birth come to me to pawn off their jewels for a bag of spoiling fruit. Some even open their legs to me or my dogs.”

“I’m sure you’ve benefitted much from what happened,” Valarr agreed, already bored. He had much to do and would rather not be wasting time talking to scum. After the siege of the city, the people had been left at the mercy of these lot. The food coming into King’s Landing was being taken by these crime families and sold for a profit. Girls had been coerced into forced prostitution, likewise with young boys. Both His and Her Grace wanted that stamped out and Valarr was given the duty of doing so when he brought the position. _Once more, I clean up the mess they leave behind_. At least he could make money at the end of it.

“We have,” answered another, this one looking like he’d been in a fair share of fights. Large as an ox and just as ugly. “Sieges are good for business, you see. What do you want, commander? Gold to line your pockets? Free girls to service you and your men whenever you decide to try out the local cuisine? Boys or girls on the house, I know you Essosi are a queer lot.”

Pederasty was a common Essosi practise, though the nobility of Westeros indulged in it more than they cared to admit. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t want a disease.” Valarr looked at them. In truth, sex never appealed to him. He only did it when he had something to gain from such a venture. Doreah was one such thing. A comely creature despite being a whore. She was close to the queen and served well as both his mouth and his ears. Valarr was under no doubt Doreah was also spying on him as well. Her Grace didn’t trust him. “There are things I want from the lot of you. I want you to bend the knee.”

That caused a few chuckles.

“You think I’m jesting? A mummer for your amusement? No, I am not. You will bend the knee like the lords to the coming king. I will tell you what to do and you will rush to do it.” He looked around at their harsh looks. “You will give me a share of your profits and, on occasion, I may look the other way. You will, however, report anything you’re going to do to me.”

“You can’t,” another growled, this one grey-haired and slender as a willow. He wore samite and rich fur, covering himself in jewels that made Valarr wonder how he hadn’t been stabbed on the street. “What you’re asking for is foolishness. We don’t serve king nor bastard.”

“Son of a bastard,” Valarr corrected, “in both senses of the word.” He looked at their tense postures. He could kill them all right now, but that would do no good. They had kinsmen who would just take their place. He could kill all the crime families but crime would just become less centralised and he didn’t want that. Valarr wanted to own all of King’s Landing. “I don’t take kindly to refusal, you know.” He glanced at his nails, picking the dirt underneath. “I know you serve yourselves and it’ll be in your own interest to align yourselves to me. Take up my offer and you’ll prosper. You’ll have the full force of the gold cloaks to support your operations within acceptable limits. You have protection under the king’s law and you won’t be executed like the cur you lot are.”

“You think you can do that?” the egg-headed man asked, his hand brushing his jewelled knife. “We bribed commanders before. We have friends in high places, ones who’d support us should you try anything. Your men as well, they are brought by us.”

Valarr smirked, shaking his head. “You do realise the purges I have overseen have been striping away your friends?” That visibly terrified them. “They exist no longer. The men you bribe will receive more coin from me. You have no power anymore. If you refuse my offer, I’ll come down on you lot with the fury of a god. I’ll torture you, skin the flesh from your bones and leave you in the street as an example to others. Your families will be included in that offer. Harshness fuels fear and I’ve found fear makes people more willing to listen.” Then Valarr grinned a faux warmth. “Any objections?”

“Aye,” spoke the criminal with a broken nose. He sized Valarr up. The sellsword captain may be taller than most, but he was slim and never considered himself a fighter. “What you are is a fool. You think you can control us? Scare us? No. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. We control King’s Landing. Not the dragons who sit atop the Red Keep, not the Baratheons nor Lannisters when they once ruled and especially not you. You are nothing. We rule the city.”

Valarr felt a flash of anger, but supressed it. Instead, he chuckled and shook his head. “You foolish creature. You’re not players, despite your wish that you were. You’re a pale imitation, nothing more. You’re in my domain now, and here be monsters.”

Without wasting a breath, he unleashed the blade hidden underneath his palm and thrust the point into the man’s throat. The man choked, tried to pry the blade away but Valarr pushed in deeper as everyone else pulled out their weapons. The crime lords weren’t as well equipped as his men who had crossbows at the ready. None made a move to assist. They looked shocked though, that he’d killed someone under the agreement that nothing like this would happen.

“Anyone else want to put their thoughts forward? No? Well, then get to work.” He pulled the blade out and the large man fell to the floor, shuddering as the fast acting poison took its cause. “I’m no longer playing around, you see. Bend the knee and give me servitude else you’ll share the same fate. I already have men after his family. They’ll be found in the main square tomorrow, be sure to be present. It’s going to be quite the spectacle.”

The next day, after a session talking to the righteous royals who were blind to their own arrogance, Valarr made his move to further cement his power. After seeing what he will to do, the rest of the criminal element in King’s Landing submitted and soon enough the last bastions of resistance would be eradicated and the whole of the capital would be his to do as he desired. “The King of Flee bottom,” his men jested. Kind of true in its own way. The crime lords were his lords, who had their own little feudal hierarchy in place. But instead of kings, it had been ruled more like an oligarchy with powerful families constantly butting heads with no one overseeing them. Valarr changed that. He usurped position of the top. They would do as he said, they gave him information and resources and Valarr kept the peace.

He journeyed to the Alchemist’s Guild, visiting the highest ranking official who remained. The Kingslayer driving his sword through the backs of the highest ranks their order and the second battle of King's Landing had done much to destroy the organisation. Valarr wasn’t impressed at what he saw. There were barely anyone left and those present didn’t know the secret of creating wildfire. Grumbling and bitter, Valarr ordered replacements from Myr. He saw the effect of wildfire and knew he needed it in his procession. Those firethrowers would be useful for the wars to come.

It was nightfall when his duties nearly came to an end. All day he worked, going to and fro across the city and his army camped outside the walls. The massive army was a logistical challenge like no other he’d faced, even if it found some relief at such a great loss of life. There just wasn’t enough food to be shared amongst the soldiers and the civilians of King’s Landing. The farmland had been destroyed and was now useless with winter coming down south. The yields from the Pentoshi fields needed time to arrive, though not to the quantity that was truly needed. Such a crisis was stretching the supply lines to the breaking point.

Rubbing his eyes, Valarr appeared before the last duty needing to be performed. It was a brothel on the Street of Silk. An upscale establishment, though one that couldn’t compare to the ones in Lys or other Essosi cities. Standing two stories tall with a strong round floor and a timber upper floor, it merged with the rest of the surrounding buildings, the ones that didn’t have the misfortune to catch alight. Over the door hung an ornate lamp, a globe of gilded metal and scarlet glass. There was a stone turret and the coloured windows let out the light from the inside.

“A brothel?” asked one of his men, a veteran from Tyrosh. Underneath his helm he wore outrageous bright yellow hair, though his beard was dyed green. “We’re here to guard you as you fuck?”

“No. We’ve got business under the command of a high ranking official within the small council,” Valarr answered truthfully. There were times when being truthful was less hassle. “Afterwards, you have leave to visit the others. These are to serve highborn and royalty. You’ll find cheaper ones down the street.”

He then ordered them inside.

The air smelled strongly of exotic spice and the floor displayed a mosaic of two women entwined in love, both wanton and lustful. The common room was carved with flowers and dancing maidens. There were cushioned alcoves and men and women drinking wine. Many of the clients were nobles, knights who served House Targaryen, and sellsword captains. Many were of the Golden Company. Their knights and officers were laughing and feasting whilst whores entertained them. Homeless Harry sat there, a buxom wench on his lap, his hands underneath her thin dress. The androgynous Maar looked bored and still as shady as he usually was. Of whores, there were plenty. Two with skin like onyx who were Summer Islanders; one with flawless porcelain skin, green eyes and long straight white-gold hair; one with thick red hair and freckles and another plain brown hair, brown eyes but sizable breasts. As his men stole them looks, Valarr rolled his eyes and proceeded further inside.

“Captain,” came a voice. Valarr turned to the older of the Summer Islanders. A tall woman she was, with thick hair and equally dark eyes. She wore thin yellow silk that left little to the imagination. “How may I service you this night?”

“I’m not interested in companionship,” he stated, ignoring some chuckles from his men. Valarr glanced at the guard who stood in the corner and the Golden Company who were looking at him with furrowed brows. He didn’t want a fight, he couldn’t afford one. The Company hated Valarr and would be more than willing to slit his throat if they could. “I am looking for someone. I come under orders. Tell me where Ser Jorah Morment is. Tell me honestly. As commander of the gold cloaks, to lie to me is to go against the king’s laws.”

“Indeed, commander,” she said, her lips barely resisting to twitch. “Please follow me. I’ll take you to him.”

Valarr ordered some of his men to stay near the stairs, the rest would follow him. As he walked through the halls, gaps and shrieks of pleasure came from behind closed doors, giggles and whispers from the other. He rolled his eyes at the sound. _Fucking animals_. They made it to one door and she stated the knight was in here. Valarr thanked the wrench and ordered her to leave. The matron did so and when she was gone, Valarr kicked the door. The sounds behind it stopped, there was a shout and the locks behind the door clicked open.

As soon as the noise was heard, Valarr and his men burst through. The door smashed open and Ser Jorah Mormont, the former slaver, was putting on his breeches. He was a large and brawny man, swarthy and hairy. He had a black beard and was balding. Even his chest and legs were hairy enough to be the sigil on his surcoat. Before the exiled knight could even react, one of the sellsword smashed him across the head with the pommel of his sword. The knight fell and two sellswords grabbed him by the arms, bending his arms back to restrain him.

Valarr snorted when he looked at the whore he had just been fucking. She was young, six-and-ten, her back pressed against the wall. She had purple-blue eyes and silver-gold hair. Lysene, she had to be. He turned back to the knight who tried to free himself but unable to. Other legionaries stood with crossbows in hand should the knight somehow break free. _This is beyond laughable_. Valarr shook his head disappointedly. “Seriously? Were you so desperate for Her Grace’s cunt that you fuck the closest thing that looks even like her?” He laughed. “I saw the way you look at her, even if His Grace is too slow in the head to do likewise. I see you lust after the queen, your eyes not leaving her . . . you love her, don’t you?” Valarr laughed all the louder at that. _The knight lusting after the married queen, where have I read that before?_

“Why are you here?” The knight demanded, trying to break free. He was rewarded with a punch to the side of the head and one of the legionaries behind pressed a foot against his spine, pushing his foot forward and strengthening the hold. “I am in service to Her Grace. _Release me. I demand it!_ ”

“You see, we’re in a bit of a problem there,” Valarr crouched so they were eye level. Glancing at the whore who stared, he said, “Take her out and close the door. If anyone tries to interrupt, kill them. Also make sure the girl remains silent as well.” The serjeant nodded and pushed the young girl out, slamming the door shut behind them. “You see, Mormont, I’m in the service of someone else who stands above the king and queen. I’m under orders, as you should be aware. This is nothing personal.”

“I doubt it,” the knight groaned, his eye going dark as blood dripping down his lip. “Everything’s personal for you.”

“No it isn’t.”

Mormont spat on the ground, blood and a broken tooth that would need to be cleaned up. “Slaver’s Bay. You killed Daario Naharis because he got in your way.”

Valarr remembered that. _I did kill Daario Naharis._  He was a fool that did what he shouldn’t have done. It didn’t take much to find those who wanted him dead after killing his own commanders. Valarr aided them as long as the Stormcrows gained a lesser share of the plunder. “You could say so. But you’re not in _my_ way, you see. I don’t care about you and you don’t care about me. Others though . . . they do care about you. You have a bad history and a certain someone wants his pawns to have a clean slate. Untainted by the likes of you. You have always been a tool in the game, and your death will benefit those who truly play it.” Mormont struggled even more now but he couldn’t get out the hold. He was a strong man and required four to hold him down as Valarr pulled out a small viral. “Don’t worry, it’ll be quick. Untraceable. It’ll be like you’ve never been poisoned.” Forcing the knight’s mouth open, Valaar poured the liquid inside. Before Ser Jorah could spit it out, Valarr forced the jaw shut. “Swallow and it’ll be all over soon, ser. Relax and have a well earned sleep.”

The Westerosi hated poison, they saw it as dishonourable. But it was a practise used within the game, as the Westerosi called it. _Well, the game of thrones is, after all, simply a game. All games have rules the players agreed to, but rules are meant to be broken. We shouldn’t be trying to play within the boundaries set out for us. We should be winning despite them_. No mercy will be given in war or peace. To those against him, no quarter would be given.

Then, after struggle which grew feebler, Ser Jorah Mormont, the slaver and exiled northern knight, collapsed. Valarr turned to his men. “Get rid of the body. You know what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be truthful, I did wonder whether I should do this chapter (or even give this character a pov) but I liked the idea too much. It shows what happens to King's Landing during the occupation after the battle, as well as what happens behind the Targs back.  
> The next chapter should be Tyrion talking to Jaime, and after that is Sansa deep in the cesspit that is Riverland politics.  
> Love it, hate it or just apathetic? I would love to hear your opinions, be it good and bad.


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